Trash Cute. Not So Cute.
Cute: This is so saccharine, so precious—it’s the kind of thing I would expect emailed from one of my New Testament-quoting, baby-doll-hoarding, Hallmark-card-sending kin from just south of the Mason-Dixon and just right of Pat Buchanan. But I keep watching it. And enjoying it. What the hell is wrong with me? Is it the hangover?
Not so cute, but equally riveting: the new issue of Vice. I know, everybody’s over Vice magazine (because there’s nothing cooler than being too cool for something that’s already too cool for school), but I idly picked up a copy at Bimbo’s the other day, and their first annual story contest is incredible. Not stories as in written, stories as in told to a Sony tape recorder. There’s the one about the young metalheads getting ambushed and dragged into the woods by an army of rednecks. And the one about the man who died twice. And the one about the white hardcore rockers and the black bikers uniting for a night in Camden, New Jersey in 1982. And the one about the Jewish BBC journalist kidnapped in Tehran. And on and on…
(Updated postscript: I have Mr. John O. to thank for the cute-as-a-pile-of-pink-kittens video. He is the arbiter of cute.)