Be thankful Carl's Jr. isn't based out of Washington, D.C.

Marketers sure are brilliant! Just when you thought you'd begun to really identify with a brand you've loved and faithfully used since childhood, Philip Morris became Altria, and Time Warner became AOL Time Warner, before becoming Time Warner again...so exciting!

7up "flipped it and reversed it" to become dnL, and next thing you know, twenty-somethings felt like skateboarding and reading "Thrasher" for the first time since junior high (and it surely didn't hurt that 7up, I mean, dnL, tastes way cooler than yesterday's extreme-sports soda, Mountain Dew).

Now, according to Adweek, the branding wizards at Mendelsohn/Zien are giving us another rechristening. Beloved second-tier fast-food chain Carl's Jr. is pandering to its Los Angeles base:

"With a simple display of the fast-food chain's smiling-star logo, a voiceover announces, "Carl's Jr. would like to extend a special welcome to the L.A. Lakers' Karl Malone," at which point a super comes up under the Laker-gold star, reading "Karl's Jr." The sound of a bouncing basketball concludes the spot."

Phew. Seeing that revised logo the first time, and given chain founder Carl Karcher's notorious background as an avid Southern California Republican, I initially feared far more insidious influences were at work.

They're Ba-a-a-ck!"

Finally! Richard Rushfield and Stacey Grenrock-Woods (and their stellar contributors) are back with a second issue of LA Innuendo.

What you will find inside (or on the Web site if you don't live in Los Angeles):
Brett Ratner bashing, obligatory (but still funny) Gigli jokes, and more of those great Overheard Conversations like this beaut overheard at the Gold's Gym Parking Lot in Hollywood:
Two women in workout clothes argue before getting into the car.
FIRST: "Do you want to get something to eat?"
SECOND: "No, I just ate."
FIRST: "So what, you're fully bulimic. Let's go."

Makes me sad that there wasn't anything this good to read when I lived in LA.

Women of the world, raise your middle finger

Not since Virginia Slims tried to connect smoking with women's lib has an ad so offensively linked consumption with power as this new campaign from the white devils at A Diamond is Forever.
Since the Web site shortens the ad's text, here it is from the print campaign:

Your left hand says 'we.' Your right hand says 'me.' Your left hand rocks the cradle. Your right hand rules the world. Women of the world, raise your right hand. A Diamond is Forever. The New Diamond Right Hand Ring. Romantic, Modern Vintage, Floral and Contemporary Styles at ADIAMONDISFOREVER.COM

That's seriously fucked up. How about:

Our left hand says 'greed.' Our right hand says 'monopoly.' Our left hand held down the slave laborer working in the mine. Our right hand searched his ass for any contraband. Women of the world, raise your right hand in favor of exploitation.

Speaking of sparkly rocks of death, Black Table has an interview with Janine Roberts, author of Glitter & Greed: The Secret World of the Diamond Cartel on the very same topic today.

Up, Up, and Away!

White House Takes Credit for Surge in Economy by Richard W. Stevenson

Personally, I think it's because of the new $20s: they make spending fun!

[low culture kidz corner: Hey, kids! Want a new $20 of your own? Just download the image above and use your color printer to make as many as you like! It's easy, but you may need an adult's supervision.]

Stain/Glass

When two movies (one based on real events, the other on a Philip Roth novel) that have very little to with each other both turn out to hinge on lies and the lying liars who tell them, you gotta wonder just what about the zeitgeist puts us in the minds of deceptive prevaricators. Oh, right.

Tonight on CBS: Touched by a Plushie

Earlier this month, Bernard Weinraub of The New York Times reported the astounding fact that Carol Mendelsohn and Ann Donahue, writers for C.S.I and its imaginatively-named spin-off, C.S.I. Miami (we accept no responsibility if you follow these links to the shows' incredibly bad Flash-intensive homepages) had signed a contract that would pay them each $20 million if the shows lasted through the 2007-2008. According to Weinraub, Jerry Bruckheimer, the shows' producer, called the writers "the backbone of the shows."

So, what sort of edgy, groundbreaking plots has CBS managed to get from Mendelsohn, 52, and Donahue, 48? How about episode the story of a murdered plushie tonight at 9PM EST?
While it is a somewhat original—and even a little radical—premise from the network that brought us Touched by an Angel and Murder, She Wrote, it's not nearly as original or exciting as the producers would have us believe.

Maybe they're trying to go after their closest competitor (in terms of cult following and franchise-growth), Law & Order, promos for which frequently boast the the plot was "Ripped from the headlines!" Only, the headline this episode of C.S.I. was ripped from is from March 2001.

Hey, Ari: Your Subtext is Showing!

Why should Ari Fleischer even bother writing his White House memoir when we have The Story of O? Based on the quotes Fleischer gave Anthony Violanti of The Buffalo News, it sounds like his experience wasn't too far from that of a certain young Parisian woman who gave herself over body and soul:
The Story of O:
"He had told Sir Stephen of O's request and,in her presence, asked him to punish her harshly enough so that she would never again dare even to conceive of shirking her duties."

The Story of Fleischer:
"I loved what I did in the White House. I found it to be intellectually stimulating, rewarding and enjoyable. But it was punishing, brutal, tough…"

The Story of O:
"O saw girls who were caught talking thrown to the floor and whipped —once in the hallway leading to the red wing, and twice again in the fectory they had just entered. So it was possible to be whipped in broad daylight, despite what they had told her the first evening…"

The Story of Fleischer:
"It's not easy to catch arrows thrown by the press every day, but that's their job, and it's my job to catch them."

The Story of O:
"You are here to serve your masters. During the day, you will perform whatever domestic duties are assigned to you, such as sweeping, putting back the books, arranging flowers, or waiting on table. Nothing more difficult than that. But at the first word or sign from anyone you will drop whatever you are doing and ready yourself for what is really your one and only duty: to lend yourself. Your hands are not your own, nor are your breasts, nor, most especially, any of your bodily orifices, which we may explore or penetrate at will."

The Story of Fleischer:
"It's a hard job. You have to serve two masters: the president of the United States, and you also try to help the Washington press corps do its job."

The Story of O:
"Was she growing weary? No. By dint of being defiled and desecrated, it seems that she must have grown used to outrages, by dint of being caressed, to caresses, if not to the whip by dint of being whipped."

The Story of Fleischer:
"I was pooped... It's the kind of job that grinds you down."

The Story of O:
"Your submission will be obtained in spite of you, not only for the inimitable pleasure that I and others will derive from it, but also that you will be made aware of what has been done to you."

The Story of Fleischer:
"It was a pleasure…answering questions from people who use their teeth to smile."

[Fleischer story via Romenesko]

Ever wonder what your mom's phone number was before you were born?

"Hefner's two little black books from 1957 and 1958, include a who's who of celebrities and cultural icons of the day, ranging from Richard Avedon to Oleg Cassini. Christie's says the address books could fetch up to $12,000 apiece." Bunny Booty On The Block In Playboy Auction By Paul Tharp

The Oval "Office"

Here at low culture, we have already speculated how agonizing it must be for members of the White House press corps to be subjected to President Bush's repetitive jokes and audaciously inane pet nicknames for his friends and peers.

Having taken a closer look at the full transcript of Tuesday's press conference, however, it became vividly clear: the president must be taking leadership cues from David Brent of BBC America's second-season hit television series, "The Office"). David (brilliantly played by actor Ricky Gervais) is the bumbling and deluded Regional Manager at a paper-supply company in an office park in the middle of nowhere.

Fans of the show can check out the uncanny similarities by looking at the lesson plan:

1. Use humor to ingratiate yourself with your staff (be "one of the guys"), but be sure that they remember who's in charge.

QUESTION: Mr. President, you talked about politics. For weeks if not months now, when questions have been posed to members of your team, those questions have been dismissed as politics and the time will come later to address those questions. You indeed have said that yourself. How can the public differentiate between reality and politics when you and your campaign have raised over $80 million and you're saying that this season has not started?

BUSH: You're not invited to lunch.

(LAUGHTER)

2. Fish for compliments, even when you're criticized.

QUESTION: Mr. President, your policies on the Middle East seem so far to have produced pretty meager results, as the violence between Israelis and Palestinians...

BUSH: Major or meager?

QUESTION: Meager.

BUSH: OK.

3. Display your keen sense of teamwork and express your solidarity with your staff, particularly your trust in their ability to do their job well.

QUESTION: And, in addition, are you considering the possibility of possibly adding more U.S. troops to the forces already on the ground there to help restore order?

BUSH: That's a decision by John Abizaid. General Abizaid makes the decision as to whether or not he needs more troops. I constantly ask the secretary of defense, as well as when I was visiting with General Abizaid, "Does he have what it takes to do his mission?" He told me he does.

4. Show your employees you really care, praise them whenever you get the chance, and give them affectionate nicknames.

BUSH: The first question was Condoleezza Rice. Her job is to coordinate inter-agency. She's doing a fine job of coordinating inter-agency. She's doing what her -- I mean, the role of the national security adviser is to not only provide good advice to the president, which she does on a regular basis -- I value her judgment and her intelligence -- but her job is also to deal inter-agency and to help unstick things that may get stuck. That's the best way to put it. She's an unsticker...

(LAUGHTER)

... and -- is she listening? OK, well, she's doing a fine job.

5. Keep making your favorite jokes over and over again until they get the reception you know they deserve.

BUSH: Let's see: Mark Smith, a radio man.

QUESTION: Thank you very much, sir, for including radio folks here.

BUSH: Face for radio.

(LAUGHTER)

QUESTION: I wish I could say that was the first time you told me that, sir.

(LAUGHTER)

BUSH: First time I did it to a national audience, though.

QUESTION: Actually my wife the last time.

6. It's important that your staff respects you and your sense of hipness. Whenever you have the chance, show off your awareness of fashion trends.

BUSH: Last question?

QUESTION: Thank you, sir. Mr. President...

BUSH: Fine looking vest.

QUESTION: Thank you, sir.

BUSH: Fine looking vest.

QUESTION: It's inspired by some of the attire from your APEC colleagues last week.

7. To innovate in today's fast-paced world, you need to be open-minded and able to coin new phrases for your brand.

BUSH: It is dangerous in Iraq because there are some who believe that we're soft, that the will of the United States can be shaken by suiciders and suiciders who are willing to drive up to a Red Cross center, a center of international help and aid and comfort, and just kill.

8. Be a real straight shooter; employees will appreciate your honesty.

BUSH: I can't put it any more plainly. Iraq's a dangerous place. That's leveling. It is a dangerous place.

9. On the other hand, when confronted with a mistake you might have made, either lie or pass the buck to someone else -- preferably an employee working beneath you.

QUESTION: Mr. President, if I may take you back to May 1st, when you stood on the USS Lincoln under a huge banner that said, "Mission Accomplished," at that time, you declared major combat operations were over. But since that time there have been over 1,000 wounded, many of them amputees who are recovering at Walter Reed, 217 killed in action since that date...

BUSH: ...The "Mission Accomplished" sign, of course, was put up by the members of the USS Abraham Lincoln saying that their mission was accomplished. I know it was attributed somehow to some ingenious advance man from staff. They weren't that ingenious, by the way.

So, there you have it. Finally, there's a rational explanation for why it seemed as though we were watching reruns of something already familiar to us.

(Additional thanks to J."K." W.)

Mmmm...Citrusy Fresh

In an effort to better serve our dozens (give or take) of readers, low culture recently set aside $7000 to do some demographic research into what our readers (that means you, Dave, Mark, Felix, Patricio, Jon, Jen, and Kate!) want most from our site. We consulted experts (well, adjunct lecturers) from Harvard's Faith Popcorn Institute of Microtrend Studies and hired trend-spotters (okay, catty high school girls) from Pupik, a social forecasting firm with offices in New York, Los Angeles, Tokyo, and Bucharest (“Look: It's All Inside The Pupik') to figure out precisely what you want (other than porn).

Amazingly, we learned that in addition to the usual criticisms of the Bush administration and The New York Post, hilarious Separated at Birth rip-offs, and love letters to Tracy Morgan you've come to expect from us, what people want most is insightful analysis of new oral hygiene products and gratuitous cursing. Well, let it never be said that we don't pander.

What the fuck is up with citrus flavored mouthwash and toothpaste?

Who the fuck thought people want to clean their teeth with something that tastes like Sunny Delight? You know that gross just-brushed-your-teeth-and-then-drank-orange-juice feeling? Apparently some people like it so much, they want to compress it into one simple step.

Seriously, are the makers of Crest Whitening Expressions and Citrus Listerine planning on putting out products flavored like crack? Because clearly, that's what they've been smoking.

Unintentionally Hilarious Photo of the Moment, vol. 8

Snorfling

Buried at the very end of Armond White's review of The Human Stain in this week's New York Press is this:
The moments are so especially erotic, it's clear we're watching Coleman's secrets and dreams. (Nakedness bathed in Jean-Yves Escoffier's amber light; Coleman snorfling a young Wasp woman's body with curiosity as much as passion.)

Snorfling? What the snorf?!? Curious, I snorfled over to the blogger's best friend, Google and tried to find this word. Here's what I got: What is my Greyhound trying to tell me?
The click/snap is actually a replacement for the lick; you will find that most of these dogs aren't lickers. Sometimes they yelp, bark, or make throaty noises while clicking. "Snorfling" might be a good description of this activity.
Snorfled that right up.

Earlier thoughts on Armond White from low culture.

A Lesson for the Youngsters

Back in 1994, Douglas Coupland complained in ArtForum that the younger generation of artists and art critics had completely forgotten James Rosenquist. (The essay, on Rosenquist's F-111, a portion of which is above, is collected in Polaroids from the Dead.)
Not so anymore. Rosenquist is the subject of a big retrospective at the Guggenheim in New York (through January 25th) and pops up today in one of those mini profiles in The Times Metro Section. Here's a little bit of wisdom from an art world survivor to all you young turks out there:
We lived like kings in New York in those days on very little money. The younger artists today think they have to turn their fine art into cash to pay the rent. Now what happens is they show too early and the critics say they stink and they think they stink.
Keep at it, kids. This guy is 70 years-old.

Your annoying uncle who insists on telling you the same joke over and over again

Despite reports that jocularity was in the air during yesterday's 48-minute White House press conference, some quip-weary reporters seem to have tired of President Bush's notorious wit and affectionate name-calling:

"When the president called on Mark Smith, the Associated Press radio reporter thanked him for 'including radio folks' in the give-and-take.

To that, a slightly chagrined Smith replied: 'I wish I could say that was the first time you told me that, sir.' Amid the short bursts of laughter, the smiling president retorted: 'The first time I did it to a national audience, though.'"

This single moment in the press conference ought to inspire genuine pity for the poor "filtering" members of the press. I'd imagine that touring with Bush day in and day out would be comparable to being married to an exasperatingly bad stand-up comic who practices his or her routine on you each night, and then having to furthermore sit in and watch his or her stage shows every three months.

And I guess this explains why we haven't seen many outtakes from "Journeys with George".

Make me look on the outside like I feel on the inside

Saw the trailer for The Last Samurai last night. What's the deal with Tom Cruise always wanting to be uglied up in his movies? In the Samurai trailer we get two shots of a badly bruised and swollen Cruise, his coverboy looks destroyed.
Reminded me of Vanilla Sky, in which he spent the majority of that film looking like Quasimodo.

Any shrinks out there wanna take a crack at this?

Terry Southern, 1924-1995

Today is the eighth anniversary of Terry Southern's death. Terry was co-author (with Mason Hoffenberg) of Candy (they were paid $500 for their retelling of Candide as a softcore romp through the sixties), co-screenwriter (with Stanley Kubrick) of Dr. Strangelove or: How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Bomb (he also tried to get the director to let him co-write A Clockwork Orange with Mick Jagger and the Rolling Stones as Alex and his Droogs), the true author of Easy Rider, and a journalist, to boot.

Terry was the knock you on your ass funny heart of the sixties counterculture and an astute slayer of pieties—right, left, center, everything in between.
Here's a letter Southern wrote to Ms. Magazine in 1972, from Now Dig This: The Unspeakable Writings of Terry Southern 1950-1995 (edited by Terry's son, Nile):

Dear Ms.:
Since the letters you see free to print are so flagrantly and one-sidedly selective ("self-serving" is, I believe the expression), I doubt this will find its way into those columns; we shall see. In any case, during your own quest for the truth, libbywise, you might consider the following suggestion: namely, that it is naïve in the extreme for women to expect to be regarded as equals by men (despite all lip service to the contrary), so long as they persist in subhuman (i.e., animal-like) behavior during sexual intercourse. I'm referring, as you doubtless know, to the outlandish panting, gasping, moaning, sobbing, writhing, scratching, biting, screaming conniptions, and the seemingly invariable "Oh my god ... oh, my god ... oh, my god" all so predictably integral to the pre-, post-, and orgasmic stages of intercourse...

According to Dick Holland of The Austin Chronicle, there's no evidence that Ms. ran the letter in whole or in part.

Let Terry's writing—and his utterly uncompromising, career-ruining antics—be a lesson to all of you safe, boring, self-styled "humorists" out there (you know who you are!) who's only ambition is to write an illustration-heavy quickie book about current events, land a New Yorker Shouts and Murmurs piece, get their own McSweeneys perma-link, or fill the once-a-month humor hole in The Times Op-Ed page. If Terry were alive today, he'd tell you exactly which hole you can fill and how. (Furthermore, Terry would never call himself a 'humorist': sounds too much like 'economist' or 'manicurist' and besides, it makes being funny seem like a job.)

To do today:
Visit Nile's site and and pay your respects.
Rent Candy and see Marlon Brando in his most insane (but intentionally funny) performance this side of The Island of Dr. Moreau
Remind yourself of how relevant Dr. Strangelove still is by checking out Operation Strangelove.
Read Terry's take on the 1968 Democratic Convention in Chicago and get ready for the G.O.P. invasion of New York next Sept. 11.
Pray that Drew Barrymore's Flower Films never gets her proposed remake of Barbarella off the ground.
Be more funny.

The Times' biting wit

Christine Hauser of the New York Times must have had to refrain from smiling to herself as she penned her account of Palestinian officials agreeing to form a new, permanent government in the wake of the impending November 4 dissolution of the current, temporary cabinet.

"The Palestinian leader Yasir Arafat asked the prime minister, Ahmed Qurei, to form the cabinet, Foreign Minister Nabil Shaath said today, according to news agency reports from Ramallah in the West Bank.

'President Arafat and the Fatah Central Committee have unanimously asked Abu Ala to form a new Cabinet based on the current one,' Mr. Shaath said, using Mr. Qurei's nom de guerre."

Hauser's right, of course. Though she's ostensibly discussing the creation of a Palestinian government, using the more conventional notions of "pseudonym" or "fictitious name" lacks the ever-so-clever double entendre of the French nom de guerre, which is also used in a pseudonymous capacity, but literally means "a war name, or a name used in the course of fighting."

So, when does this government-creating end and the fighting resume? I was so busy quibbling over semantics that I forgot, whose turn is it?

FOX gets Meta

Not sure how I feel about this: it appears the FOX Network (or at least their marketing people) has discovered this weird thing called 'meta'. How else to explain the ad for the soon-to-be cancelled new show Arrested Development with this phrase:

It's called heading off criticism at the pass, people. And when your show stars Jason Bateman, it's an absolute necessity.

Earlier FOX antics from low culture

Born Rich: An Obligatory Review

Though we're still listening to EMF and several assorted skronk mixtapes, we knew that it would be a great disservice to the youthful upper-middle-class post-hipster community to blithely ignore the arrival of The Strokes' second album, so we had guest reviewer Guy Cimbalo review the reviews:

The Strokes release “Room On Fire” today, affording the dubious field of rock journalism an opportunity to plow through more self-same cliches than typical coverage of how difficult Thom Yorke can be. But why slog through countless articles headlined “Different Strokes?” when low culture lets you read them all in one sitting?

The temptation to dismiss the Strokes is acknowledged:

"This poseurship is just one of the reasons it takes immense critical discipline not to hate them…" (Time)

"And, like Nirvana, the Strokes have been embraced by the designers of runway fashion, the death knell of anything sincere." (Rolling Stone)

"… earning myself a spot on this very staff with a lengthy diatribe against the band's hype machine, socioeconomic background, and rampant influence-pilfering." (Pitchfork Media)

"In recent weeks, it has been difficult to walk past a newsagent without feeling a twinge of concern for the Strokes." (The Guardian)

"They are very famous even though no one can remember which one dates Demi Moore and which one is Justin." (Village Voice)

The temptation to dismiss the Strokes is then shelved:

"Everything that initially made some of us skeptical of the Strokes' charms…now makes some of us susceptible." (Village Voice)

"But when you hear the Strokes, that cultivated cool disperses with every passing guitar chord, and suddenly, just by listening, you’re cool too." (Time)

"Of course, the Strokes don't technically belong to a scene, because they were never even acquaintances with their compatriots." (Rolling Stone)

"…in the process, they've earned the respect of many critics who initially dismissed them as a gang of riffstealing rich kids." (Spin)

The band’s hygiene/lack-thereof is noted:

"I will see Casablancas nearly every day for the next week: His clothes and bracelets will not change, though he claims his underwear and socks do." (Rolling Stone)

"All five members of the Strokes appear to have studiously avoided wandering under a showerhead since birth." (Time)

"Their rumpled but mod style…" (Spin)

"…sharply dressed "dirty puppies" who were handy in a street fight." (NME)

The Strokes’ musical debts are addressed (ordered from least to most obscure):

"…people noted that the Strokes bore a surprising similarity to Definitely Maybe-era Oasis." (The Guardian)

"…and there’s no ignoring the influences when drummer Fabrizio Moretti bangs out a snare fill that would make the Zeppelins’ John Bonham bolt upright in his grave." (Time)

"…lead guitarist Nick Valensi is sweating Joey Santiago something fierce here." (Pitchfork Media)

"…instruments blitz in and out of your face with the abrupt precision of a Lee Perry dub mix." (Rolling Stone)

"Nick Valensi puts Elliott Easton to shame—I mean, we're in Steve Lukather, even Neil Geraldo territory here." (Village Voice)

Followed by limp metaphors for Casablancas’ vocals:

"He is the son of model magnate John Casablancas, but a study of his DNA would probably reveal more of a family connection to Holden Caufield." (Time)

"…it's as if he's singing over a broken speakerphone from a burning building. Like any good New Yorker, Casablancas is suspicious and impatient by nature." (Rolling Stone)

"His default sigh, now slid a notch from Iggy-decadent toward Roxy-wistful…" (Village Voice)

"…sounding less like a man come to save rock with some snarling New York punk attitude than a company director fretting over the end-of-year figures." (The Guardian)

Concluding with enigmatic mention of Sam Cooke’s “A Change Is Gonna Come”:

"Julian’s yearning, ragged vocal melody somehow evokes Sam Cooke’s civil rights anthem ‘A Change Is Gonna Come’…" (NME)

"As he tells this story, the jukebox fills the room with the strains of Sam Cooke's soul-stirring "A Change Is Gonna Come," and the girls gather round. All time stops for Casablancas. "When I hear 'A Change Is Gonna Come,' " he says, 'it frustrates me.'" (Rolling Stone)

With no sanity grip!

Ann Coulter Talking Action Figure
Anyone know when George Gurley's birthday is?

[Thanks, Madame J!]

Is it art... or a cry for help?

Lock up your hermaphroditic daughters: The Chapman Brothers are back! Like a nasty case of herpes that pops up every few years to make the skin of the body politic crawl, Jake and Dinos Chapman have returned with their unique take on shock art, just in time for awards season.

Who can forget their adorable take on smushed-together pre-adolescent girls with penis noses? Or their enlightening take on the Holocaust involving miniature concentration camps. (The figurines would be right at home in a Bürger Führer Unhappy Meal™.)

Here's part of their latest bid for a little attention—and a lot of scratch—in the 20th annual Turner Prize in December. On the left, we see Death, (note the oblique, deep title) "a life-size bronze cast of two inflatable sex dolls engaged in fellatio." Oh, so that's what those two dolls were doing!

The weird thing about Jake and Dinos' shocking, shocking art is that it’s really, really boring. I mean, what angry 10 year-old boys hasn’t doodled the same things in his notebook during a boring math class? It reminds me of the name (and the cover art) of an old album. And I didn't have to go to a museum to see it.

"If you can't smoke underwater, no one will swim again!"

Presumably, those of you living in New York have by now been bombarded with these public-service ads from the American Legacy Foundation, founded in the wake of the tobacco industry's settlement with 46 states in 1999 and "dedicated to building a world where young people reject tobacco and anyone can quit."

That's a fine and noble mission, and certainly warrants some form of applause. But they're making it so hard for me to get behind their message. First, they unveiled the truth® campaign, which utilized an uber-didactic narrative and "cutting-edge" filmmaking methodology to try to persuade the MTV generation that smoking is bad for you (natch) and the tobacco industry is run by a bunch of greedy, calloused motherfuckers who never saw a Michael Mann film they could really embrace.

Within the past year or so, the relatively austere tone of the original truth® campaign morphed into the "Crazyworld" campaign, which seemed to channel HBO's absurdist "Carnivale" television series, but populating the cast with hipsters rather than circus freaks (those terms are in fact mutually exclusive).

Now comes our very own New York-tailored campaign, "A Smoke-Free New York Works", which was ostensibly created in the wake of a vocal protest campaign by those who decried Mayor Bloomberg and Governor Pataki's recent ban on smoking in bars and nightclubs. Again, a fine and noble mission. Anyone living in Los Angeles or California in general knows this can work just fine, despite many TimeOut New York cover stories whining to the contrary.

The problem, however, is that this new American Legacy campaign seems to throw out (alongside the didacticism, thankfully) the avant-garde pretense of its predecessors in lieu of pure and simpleminded idiocy. Here's the gist: whether sitting on a subway car, or waiting at a bus stop, or leafing through the Village Voice, a bold white ad with hand-scrawled red text leaps out at you, often bearing the most hilariously asinine phrases imaginable. Here are some real, actual samples, unlike our "absurd" headline:

"If they ban smoking in college classrooms, it will destroy higher education!"

"If they ban smoking in office buildings, no one will ever work again!"

"If they ban smoking in churches, it will wipe out all religion!"

"If they ban smoking at JFK, nobody will ever fly again!"

"If they ban smoking in stores, everyone will quit buying stuff!"

Bear in mind these are all actual ads you may have encountered. But I have to ask, who the hell would ever utter such stupid, contemptibly moronic assertions? And if these people really exist, are they really worth listening to, much less quoting?

So, once again, the lofty goals of the anti-smoking industry -- despite my being otherwise inclined to endorse any and all of their efforts -- have left me to consider supporting efforts and initiatives that would remove their funding. Well, not really, but...something needs to be done, because if I ever step into a bathroom and see this hanging on the doorway or near the stalls, I'll snap and ask someone for a light. Again, this is a real and actual ad:

"If they ban smoking in bathrooms, it will kill the urinal cake industry!"

Do I even care about the urinal cake industry? It's the tobacco industry that needs to be reined in, chumps, and ads like this are completely counter-effective.

Prog Blog?

Simon Reynolds goes prog crazy on his blissblog. Sort of reminds me of how the Smurfs talked only, um, more prog.

Editor-in-Chief, edit thyself

I saw this headline on The New Republic Web site and assumed it would be yet another piece on Gregg Easterbrook: When it comes to anti-Semitism, old habits die hard.

Instead, I found an essay on the Middle East by TNR's Cambridge Diarist and editor-in-chief Martin Peretz.

Always look on the bright side of life...

"The more free the Iraqis become, the more electricity is available, the more jobs are available, the more kids that are going to school, the more desperate these killers become, because they can't stand the thought of a free society." — President Bush on the attacks in Baghdad that killed at least 34 people and injured another 200.

Bush Says Bombings Will Not Deter Him by By Richard W. Stevenson and David Firestone

Happy Songs for our Cheerleader-in-Chief:
"Always Look on the Bright Side of Life"
"Ac-cent-tchu-ate The Positive"
"Shiny Happy People"

Outrun This, Diddy

Let's see if the Teflon Hip-Hop Don can outrun this latest controversy:
A Hip-Hop Star's Fashion Line Is Tagged With a Sweatshop by Angel Franco.

I'm betting he'll flip this in his favor just like everything else in his charmed life.

Everybody Hurts

Note: This was a review of Ang Lee's Hulk written around the time of the film's theatrical release for an online magazine. The article got spiked due to the film's precipitous decline in the box office during its second week and a general sense that the film didn't have the cultural impact people had anticipated. Hulk has just been released on a two-disc DVD. This article is pretty fucking long, so no one will blame you if you skip it.

"Green personalities want to help every one. They are nature's mothers... Nurturers by choice, they are the ones who take care of animals, humans and plants.

"Green personalities need to be careful not to make martyrs of themselves." - Da Juana Byrd, "Color Personality" Test from PsychicAdvice.com

I have seen the future of manhood, and it is green. Hulk green, to be more specific.

Unless you've been living in the subterranean city of Zion for the last month, you already know that Ang Lee's Hulk has—briefly-clobbered the multiplexes and captured the hearts and minds of viewers and critics in a manner not seen since...maybe The Matrix Reloaded, six weeks ago.

Critics worried about how Lee, the art house auteur of Sense and Sensibility, The Ice Storm, and Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon, would have to alter his style to tackle the $150 million, CGI-intensive summer "event" picture. A more salient question is not how would Hulk change Lee, but how Lee would change the Hulk? Well, aside from cutting "The Incredible," out of the big green guy's name, he also cut off his big green balls.

This new Hulk, as played by Aussie cipher Eric Bana (and about a billion ones and zeros courtesy of Industrial Light + Magic), isn't merely full of rage like his comic book and television predecessors: he's a walking DSM IV, packed to the pecs with feelings, and boy do they hurt easily. Call him The Incredible Sulk.

Before we can meet the Hulk, we're stuck with Bruce Banner, a repressed, emotionally closed-off sad sack tooling his bike through the hills of San Francisco in a dorky helmet. Following an overlong flashback of his mad scientist-with-a-Village People mustache father experimenting on him with dangerous levels of hormones and over-acting, we pick up with Banner shortly after he's been dumped by girlfriend/colleague Betty Ross (Jennifer Connelly, so thin she resembles an Al Hirshfeld drawing). In typical Marin county therapy speak, Betty tells Bruce that he's just the latest in a long line of "emotionally distant" men she's fallen for. But, hey, they can still be friends and continue their groundbreaking research into blowing up bullfrogs using science. (If only all lady scientists were so understanding!)

In these early scenes, Bruce is so stiff you half expect to see knotholes poking out from his rolled-up shirtsleeves. But if Betty wishes her ex would just open up and share his feelings, she'll come to regret it after the near-fatal blast of Gamma Rays and Nanomeds (or whatever) cause him to become an 800lb drama queen with a taste for flamboyant purple cut-offs.

Following a plot so tortuous viewers might be tempted to use their four dollar popcorns like a trail of breadcrumbs, we find Banner fully transformed into the Hulk, breaking lots of stuff and fleeing from the entire Military-Industrial Complex.

As critics who got B-minuses in Intro to Psych will tell you, this angry green giant is the manifestation of Banner's id, a howling, pounding return of the repressed. He is that, to be sure, but combined with his newfound strength and ability to heal instantly are his surprising internal weaknesses and the fact that his wounds are mostly emotional. Ang Lee's Hulk is less golem, more nebbish; it's like the 98lb weakling finally got Charles Atlas'd, yet remains a big wuss. Why is this? Why is the most masculine comic book character this side of Metropolis suddenly so... feminine? Well, I'm afraid you'll have to ask Ang Lee.

Lee and his longtime writing and producing partner James Schamus, have brought us some of the most sensitive male characters in recent cinematic history. By sensitive, I don't merely mean fellas with high EQs: I mean criers, passive aggressive nudges, and hen-pecked non-agents. Remember the end of The Ice Storm when ascot-loving suburban dad Ben Hood (Kevin Kline) loses his shit and breaks down into sobs in front of his entire family? And don't get me started on his milquetoast Dostoyevsky-quoting son, Paul (Tobey Maguire) who attempts to seduce and destroy a female classmate (Katie Holmes) but finds himself on the receiving end of the old "you're like a brother to me" speech. And then there's Chow Yun Fat in Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon, who loses his phallic-signifying sword "Green Destiny" along with his mojo. (What's with the green motif, Ang?)

These characters seem to be a direct outgrowth of Lee's personality: "He has the most quiet footprint, a tremendous humility," former producing partner Ted Hope told John Lahr in The New Yorker. "He once said to me, describing his process, that movies pass through him." (Whoa, watch those archetypes, Ted! We only got B-minuses after all!)

According to Lahr, that passivity extends to Lee's personal life where his wife Lin wears the pants in the family. To hear Lee tell it, he lives out a version of The Secret Life of Walter Mitty in which he's hen-pecked at home but free to live out his fantasies of power only while making movies. "[On the set] my job is telling people what I want," Lee tells Lahr. "But when I get home it's back to life-what she wants."

It's no wonder then that one of the motifs in Hulk is Betty's ability to calm the Hulk down enough to bring back Bruce, in essence, to cut him down to size. (As New York Magazine film critic Peter Rainer quipped "No wonder he's angry—his girlfriend makes him smaller.")

But that's not all. This Hulk exhibits other traits rarely associated with the masculine he-men of the comic book/action genre. At one point, after a particularly vicious battle with some hulked-out evil dogs (including, with a touch of surrealism, a Standard Poodle), Hulk staggers over to a lake and ponders his own reflection like some 'roid-raging Narcissus. Gazing down at his own reflection, one can only imagine what he's thinking and feeling: guilt, sadness, confusion, a nagging suspicion that his skin would look better—tauter—if only he'd used Kiehl's Ultra Facial Moisturizer for Men. You can almost imagine Lee allowing a single (green?) tear to ripple the reflection away. (Cue The Who: "See me...Feel me-e-e... Touch me.... Heal me-e-e!") Thankfully, in an over-the-top film, we're spared that particular image.

Another aspect of Lee's kinder, gentler Hulk is his overweening daddy fixation: The guy's got more father issues than a stadium full of Promise Keepers.

Further complicating Banner's predicament is the return of his dad (played in by the method acting or merely insane, Nick Nolte), who has spent the last thirty years in a psychiatric ward. Like a lot of absentee dads, he wants to catch up on lost time with some hands-on father-son bonding.

But it's not easy, you see, because dad has some Gamma Ray/nanomed problems of his own that get in the way of intimacy with his boy. The Gamma Ray/nanomeds (or whatever) have given Papa Banner the ability to absorb others' power and use it against them. As if living out every thirteen year-old's secret Oedipal wish, Banner/Hulk gets the chance to go mano-a-mano with his old man, but finds himself outmatched when his father literally absorbs his anger and uses it against him. (A classic passive-aggressive.) This, of course, makes Hulk even more depressed, probably tapping those wells of guilt and anger that lurk inside every father's son.

Man, does this Hulk have issues!

Of course, all the blame can't be laid at the quiet footprints of Ang Lee. An old proverb tells us that every generation gets the Hulk it deserves. We're living in an era of greatly diminished expectations for heroes and further diminished standards for manhood among mere mortals. This is a time when millions tune in to The Sopranos to watch The Godfather's capo-di-tutti-capi re-imagined as an anxiety-riddled suburban dad who cries when ducks land in his pool, when a movie like X2: X-Men United is interpreted by many as an allegory for gay pride and acceptance, and when Daredevil becomes the story of a handicapped man in skintight red leather overcoming childhood trauma. (Best not to mention the casting of Ben Affleck—the most whipped man in Hollywood since Eddie Fisher—as Daredevil.) Clearly, we're not dealing with our fathers' superheroes.

The problem with these hypersensitive heroes is that their depth is in direct conflict with the shallowness of the films they live in. With the exception of The Sopranos, which has 13 to 20 hours a year to develop its plots (not to mention the best writers, actors, and directors cable money can buy), the examples above are within the intentionally-narrow confines of frivolous big budget action movies. Why bother making your Mutants vs. The Man popcorn flick a meditation on Gay, Lesbian, Transgender rights? That's not speaking truth to power, that's speaking Latin to housecats. Daredevil isn't "differently abled," he's a superhero. What's the point of making your CGI monster as textured as Hamlet? Hulk doesn't need to be deep, he's huge and pissed-off.

C'mon, Ang: Hulk's the beast inside us, not Free to Be...You and Me.

Watching the Hulk emote almost makes you nostalgic for the time when comic book characters like Superman were the strong-jawed extensions of stoic American manhood. Superman never cried about the fact that his parents were killed—and his entire stinkin' planet was destroyed—he just kicked bad guy ass and did his best to avoid kryptonite. Not so, Ang Lee's Hulk.

Before Lee got a hold of him, when Hulk got angry-woe onto you if you made him angry!-he'd bellow "HULK M-A-A-A-A-D!" just before smashing you and everything in sight.

Post Lee, Hulk still bellows, but now he's more likely to tell you with self-actualized sincerity "HULK S-A-A-A-D! Why you hurt Hulk's feelings?" And skulk off to listen to old Smiths records and write in his diary.

[Thanks to Michael Martin for editorial guidance]

MTV's Sunday Stoopid

Tuning into last night's "Sunday Stew" lineup of new shows on MTV, one was treated to the moronic adolescent behavior we've come to expect from the network that contributed "Frog Baseball" and Chris Hardwick to the culture.

There were instances of taunting hyenas with meat, punching a jolly fat man in the face repeatedly, stomping around Las Vegas hotels in flip-flops and baggy basketball shorts, and taunting a 15-year-old until she cried. What was striking though, was that instead of all these antics being acted out by particularly destructive 13-year-old boys, we were treated to these delights from adult men, some of whom were over 30 years old. If Christopher Noxon of the Times' Style section hadn't already dubbed such men-boys 'rejuveniles' back in August, we might refer to them by the name of the show that spawned them: Jackasses.

Forget Ashton, and his nauseating shouting and mugging on Punk'd (seriously, try to forget him—it'll make it so much easier when he's on VH1's Where Are They Now in two years), the biggest Jackasses of all were Steve-O and Chris Pontius, or as they're called when they're stripped naked together, Wild Boyz.

The premise of Wild Boyz is simple yet strangely compelling: let's set two complete idiots loose in some wild terrain with some wild animals and see what happens. Ripping a page—or two, or three, or all of them—from the short-lived, but infinitely better series Fishing With John, the show combines totally uninformed animal husbandry with straight-faced nature program voice over: It's like a National Geographic special hosted by The Three Stooges.

Over a decade old now, Fishing With John was hosted by eighties downtown scenester and indie movie dude John Lurie with a revolving cast of grizzled hipster eminences like Tom Waits, Willem Dafoe, and Dennis Hopper and brought some laid-back "cool daddy" cool to what was essentially a boring genre, the fishing show. (Highlights on the Criterion DVD include Tom Waits and John Lurie trying to catch a shark using Jarlsberg cheese and a gun and Willem Dafoe asking John very sweetly if maybe they should zip their sleeping bags together for warmth while camping on a frozen lake for ice fishing.) In contrast, the zingiest banter between Steve-O and Pontius runs along the lines of "Oh, man!" "Yeah, dude!" It's like MTV has gone back to square one.

Yes, a sure way to date yourself is to complain that MTV is stupid and juvenile and tell everyone you liked it soooo much better when Remote Control was on and Kennedy walked the earth, but seriously, I expect a little better from MTV. If they keep this up, I might have to start watching A&E and we don't want that, do we?

Can the American left afford to lose its international perspective?

Buried within the larger reports of Al Gore's efforts to spearhead a campaign to introduce a "liberal" alternative to mainstream and conservative cable news outlets is this overlooked aspect of the current plan:

"Gore is keeping quiet about it, but he heads a group that plans to pay a reported $70 million to buy Newsworld International (NWI), a cable news network that's currently in fewer than 20 million homes."

I don't claim to be well-versed in the mechanics of establishing new cable networks and contractually arranging for their effective distribution, but replacing a network like NWI with this "liberal alternative" to other networks seems a bit narrowminded and foolhardy, to say the least.

I can geekily admit to really, sincerely loving NWI -- its motley assortment of news from Canada, Germany, the U.K., and Russia consistently proves to be a truly useful alternative to the nationalist (and often naive) perspective of much of the U.S.-based newsmedia. Where else can one see televised footage of U.S.-built Israeli Caterpillar D-9 bulldozers plowing through Palestinian homes, or uncensored broadcasts of the latest Osama bin Laden audio or videotapes? Where else can one see President Bush speak in all his soundbite-devoid, flub-worthy glory? And where else can television viewers get "man on the street" perspectives on international policy from citizens in Ottawa and Berlin?

As such, it would seem to be a less-than-ideal solution to remove this network from the airwaves merely to replace it with an "entertaining" platform for Al Franken or Bill Maher to put forth nightly punchlines about Bush's numerous lies.

Can't we have them both? And maybe we can give up the style network or even, if necessary, C-SPAN 3 (I'm not kidding, there are in fact three C-SPANs).

"The New Yorker, yes, The N(EW) Yorker"

Setting the hearts of hipster geeks everywhere aflutter, The New Yorker offers up the delectable geek girl-on-girl pairing of the week: Virginia Heffernan and Tina Fey. Except maybe this might have been called the writerly menage a trois that never was; does anyone know what happened to Entertainment Weekly's Kristen Baldwin?

We ask only because Heffernan's profile of Fey seems to channel the spirits of Baldwin's coverage of Weekend Update co-hosts Fey and Jimmy Fallon, which originally appeared in the May 10, 2002 issue of EW. To wit:

1. Sit in on writers' meetings and/or SNL dress rehearsal discussions to convey the humorous give-and-take of Fey's job.

"[On a saturday afternoon] The writers were trying to come up with a joke about the Dixie Chicks, whose lead singer had slighted President Bush. Doug Abeles read the setup: “While in London on Thursday, the Dixie Chicks angered country-music fans when lead singer Natalie Maines told the audience, ‘Just so you know, we’re ashamed that the President of the United States is from Texas.’” Fey squinted, as if detecting a quip in the distance...“We apologize,” she suddenly declared. “We forgot that our entire fan base were hillbillies and idiots.” Everyone chuckled except Shoemaker, who pointed out that Dixie Chicks fans were people like his wife. Fey agreed, without apology, and the group moved on to a joke about a man who swallowed a diamond ring in order to ask his proctologist to marry him." (The New Yorker, 2003)

"Update cohosts Tina Fey and Jimmy Fallon survey the patchwork of hilarity looking for stuff to cut, while simultaneously facing pressing challenges...And then there is the Captain Morgan problem. "A new study reveals that eyedrops work as well as eye patches to correct lazy eye. A skeptical Captain Morgan said, 'Yeah, I've heard that one before.'" Although it's not every day a person gets to work the swashbuckling mascot of a rum brand into a joke, an Update staffer has some bad news for Fallon: "The thing is," he says matter-of-factly, "Captain Morgan doesn't have an eye patch." In a room full of comedy writers, that's all it takes to provoke a riffing frenzy." (EW, 2002)

2. Invoke Fey's adulatory hipster fan base, and the discomfort this provides her.

"As we were talking, a man in his twenties, with wild tufts of dark hair, stopped by our table, which was near the soda fountain. Over the roar of a blender, he shouted to Fey, “Can I tell you that you are amazing? I don’t want to interrupt, but you are truly, truly amazing!” Fey thanked him, staring down at her plate." (The New Yorker, 2003)

"It would embarrass Tina if she knew how many people have told me they think she's, like, the hottest woman on TV," says [Weekend Update producer Michael] Schur. The sex-symbol issue is, in fact, one that makes both Fallon and Fey squirm uncomfortably and stare at their hands. "I just try to stay out of it," says Fey, who's married to theater director Jeff Richmond. (EW, 2002)

3. Mention People magazine's "50 Most Beautiful People" list in some capacity

"She lost thirty pounds in the year before she went on camera for “Weekend Update,” and she now works out with a trainer and counts the point value of each meal according to the Weight Watchers system. (Earlier this year, People included her in its annual list of most beautiful people. “Don’t mention it,” she told me. “Ride it out.”)" (The New Yorker, 2003)

"Brace yourself for some full-body blushing, buddy: Fallon just landed on PEOPLE magazine's 50 Most Beautiful list, and gossip columnists have spilled much ink linking him with such ladies as Winona Ryder and fashion designer Tara Subkoff." (EW, 2002)

Geekier than Hell

I love Elvis Mitchell so much that if he were to review the phonebook, I'd read it just to admire his turns-of-phrase and character sketches of Aaron A. Aaronson and Aaron A Adams. Somehow Mitchell manages to be both cool and a major geek at the same time. Case in point, Mitchell's piece in this week's Times Arts & Leisure section, The 'Kill Bill' Soundtrack: D.J. Quentin's Recycled Mix in which Elvis waxes geekier than Harry Knowles, "Moriarty", and Quentin Tarantino in a three-way AOL chat.
Mitchell references movies and TV shows no one (not even the stars and creators) remembers like They Call Her One Eye and Codename: Foxfire.
It's a good article, but man, if no one outside of the smallest of Internet chatrooms will find it interesting. My hat's off to you, Elvis Mitchell, King of Geeks.

NY vs. DC

In a case of New York media ethnocentrism that would be shocking—shocking—if it weren't so damn predictable, spinsters flipping through this Sunday's Times Vows column were treated to a full-page story (with accompanying photo) about New York magazine's Amy Sohn's wedding to painter Charles Miller. What's so shocking is that just a page or two later, The Times reports on the wedding of New Republic editor Peter Beinart to Diana Hartstein with a teeny-tiny 2.5 paragraph story with no photos!

Are we really to believe that a sex columnist for New York has more glamour and appeal than the editor of The New Republic, America's foremost weekly journal of centrist liberal thought? Sure, Amy writes about her sex life without shame, but Peter knows Al Gore! Someone somewhere must've thought TNR was hot, because there's a little movie coming soon all about the magazine starring this sexy beast.

This is so unfair. And you know Amy's wedding will get optioned as a We movie starring that Jewish actress from Coupling (The Taming of Amy: How New York's Sexiest Sex Column Settled Down for Sex with One Man!) while Peter would be lucky to have his wedding mentioned on K Street. It's enough to make you cancel your subscription to all 20 glossy magazines you get every month.

Pseudo-imaginary conflict of interest watch

The New York Times announced today that its "public editor" will be Daniel Okrent.
Jacques Steinberg, The Times' designated insider-outsider newspaper reporter lays out Okrent's qualifications for the job yet neglects to mention his acting role in Woody Allen's Sweet and Lowdown in 1999. I ask you, in all seriously, people: how can we expect balanced, un-biased coverage of Woody Allen from The New York Times going forward!? I sure hope that Mr. Okrent isn't called upon to oversee coverage of Untitled Woody Allen Fall Project (2004) or any of its stars (including Will Farrell, Jason Biggs, Chlo' Sevigny, and Wallace Shawn—the latter of whom have a sex scene one person close to the project called "the hottest on-screen sex scene since The Brown Bunny)? And, more to the point, what about the review of Woody's book? Talk about bias in the media!

[via: Romenesko]