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Friday, November 24, 2006

The Birds: Part Three

posted by on November 24 at 3:05 PM

Near the corner of 12th and Jackson, a wild burst of birds, an eruption of flapping and feathers. Over a hundred pigeons fly up and out in every direction. They panic the air and startle pedestrians with bird shrieks. Suddenly, striking from the sky, a massive hawk nails one unfortunate pigeon with its claws. The pigeon is punctured, the pigeon struggles and screams, the pigeon's life is crushed out of it by the unforgiving tarmac. (Thank god I'm not bald like ancient Aeschylus! I run across the street--this is too much, this is the middle of a fucking city!) The hawk then takes to the sky with its prey--neck and beak broken, tongue sticking out, black eyes blank. The hunt and kill happens with no thought, no pause, no waste--it's just pure action, pure force: the hawk, the power of death; the pigeon, the weakness of life.

That is the end of The Birds series.


Thursday, November 23, 2006

All Birds, All the Time

posted by on November 23 at 9:21 PM

Down around Montlake circa 4 pm today the yards and sidewalks were FILLED with crows. These yards and sidewalks were covered in soaked, orangey-brown leaves, and the crows were having a field day. Eating the bugs in the decomposing leaves? I'm talking about, oh, sixty thousand crows? Yard after yard after yard. FILLED. Black birds on orange leaves. Feasting.

"And there's more over there!" said the person who was driving the car I was in.

"We see them."

"They're everywhere. Do you see them over there too?"

"Don't watch the crows. Watch the road."

Because I Hate Fun

posted by on November 23 at 2:57 PM

An alternate take on Thanksgiving:

Thanksgiving. It's one of those execrable Christian holidays, such as the 4th of July, Christmas, or a wedding, when all Americans suddenly become insensible of any guiding principle except an enormous cultural pressure to capitulate unquestioningly to the demands of patriarchal theo-consumerist tradition. In the case of Thanksgiving, blind adherence to custom requires the uncompromising conformist to binge on cloying, pedestrian "comfort” food cooked for 3 days by women, while men watch TV.

Then the women go shopping.

Horribly, Thanksgiving's repellent foodly intemperance is nearly always presented at some weird, un-dinner-like hour of the afternoon, then it's back to the TV for the patriarchs, and back to the scullery for the womenfolk, where they scour off the carbonized substrate of the sugary sweet potato-marshmallow pie, wrap in foil the remains of the enhormoned, tortured Butterball, tuck into Tupperware the green been casserole made with Campbell's Cream of Mushroom Soup and French's Fried Onions, and chuck out the untouched can-shaped cylinder of Ocean Spray "cranberry sauce” that nobody understands, eats, or can live without. Afterward, everybody either falls comatose or writhes, suffering varying degrees of physical and emotional distress, on such seating usually a small needlepoint footstool or one of the dining room chairs as has not been previously commandeered by the football-watching males.

This ritual gluttony, which spikes pretty high on the Blame-O-Meter owing to its particular dependence on sex-based apartheid, is observed ostensibly to commemorate the patriarchally-approved European god-myths surrounding the so-called First Thanksgiving.

There's morelots more. Enjoy!

The Web Abhors a Vacuum

posted by on November 23 at 12:15 PM

Note: There is no web site entitled www.ihatethanksgiving.com. Go ahead. Click on the link. See! Nothing!

I'm not necessarily telling you to get on it. I'm just sayin'...


Wednesday, November 22, 2006

Macy's Parade Balloon, or Giant Poo on West 77th Street?

posted by on November 22 at 5:10 PM

The view from my brother's window at work in New York earlier today. He says that when fully inflated, the brown blob in the right of the frame will look a lot less like doggy-doo, and a lot more like Scooby Doo. Happy Thanksgiving!

TDayParade.jpg

Re: Michael Richards Brouhaha

posted by on November 22 at 4:24 PM

The video of his tirade is horrifying. The whole thing saddens me deeply. I am a big Seinfeld fan, now every time I see an ad for the show, I cringe. What's even weirder is that Richards is an alumnus of my alma mater The Evergreen State College. I can't believe the indoctrination from the PC Police down in Olympia didn't imprint more deeply.

Confessions From a Straight Past (Or, How I Once Made Out With LA's Dopest Attorney)

posted by on November 22 at 11:35 AM

While we're talking about pot and pictures that bring back memories, holy shit, did I just see a picture that brought me way back. And in the LA Times no less!

Margolin.jpg

You see, gentle blog reader, there was a time when I kissed a woman or two, including the one above, who now defends pot-heads in Los Angeles and was recently portrayed on the front-page of the LA Times as "LA's Dopest Attorney."

It's a funny thing to be gay and yet feel a sort of pride at the beautiful woman you once made out with in your freshman dorm room. But armchair psychologists take note: That's exactly what I felt while reading about "LA's Dopest Attorney" and how her clients lust after her, how she is trailed by two young men who answer her phone and clean out her car, how she puts her plunging necklines to good strategic use, and how, with her legal practice taking off, she now aspires to wear "only Chanel" and "make a lot of money."

Am I still attracted to her? Am I jealous of her gaggle of fawning men? Am I thrilled that homely straight boys everywhere might now be jealous of me for having once landed a woman they can only dream of, and worse for the homely straight boys, a woman I myself never really dreamed of? Sorry, I'm saving it for the tell-all.

Confidential to Allison: You go, girl!

Confidential to life: What does it mean that she's defending pot-heads while I'm working for them?

Confidential to straight Slog readers: Eat your hearts out...

Ghosts in the Womb

posted by on November 22 at 11:14 AM

womb4_468x328.jpg

That is a fetal elephant, in utero, scanned and photographed for a National Geographic documentary.

Here is a golden retriever:

Dog1DBmed_350x254.jpg

Don't they look like ghosts? Luminous, insubstantial, like they're not really in the world yet, like they could disappear at any moment. I'd like to think of fetuses as tiny ghoststhat's almost sweeter and more poetic than the theory of homunculi.

Slightly less poetic is this quote, from one of the filmmakers:

"Animals were trained to sit still near the scanners and we also inserted cameras into the womb via the elephant's rectumbut it has been worth it.

Notes From The Prayer Warrior

posted by on November 22 at 10:26 AM

Post-hunt, pre-Thanksgiving wishes, from the Prayer Warrior.

unknown.gif

November 22, 2006

Dear Prayer Warrior,

I want to wish you a great Thanksgiving, and pray for each of you to have safety in traveling this weekend. Praise God for all He's done for us this past year!

Please pray for Dr. Dobson as he is on Larry King Live tonight.

Your Pastor,
Hutch


Tuesday, November 21, 2006

The Birds

posted by on November 21 at 1:45 PM

At around noon, dark clouds gathered in the south and strong winds rushed through trees, raised dead leaves, and made pedestrians nervous--something could suddenly fall out of nowhere (a telephone pole, a crane, a satellite dish) and crush us out of our only existence. In the sky just above the statue of the 13th century Buddhist monk Shinran Shonin, on 15th and Main, a flock of seagulls seemed to be playing with the force of this wind, which, for reasons that might be geographic or purely meteorological, seemed stronger there than elsewhere. Each seagull would, with all its bird strength, fly into the wind and then, switching off its bird strength, be blown backward by the wind. The wind not only blew the bird back like a lifeless kite but also, after a moment, sent it tumbling earthward. Just before crashing in the park that was watched by the stone form of Shonin, the seagull would re-ignite its strength and fly up and into the wind again. These birds were enjoying themselves. But even more than that: they were philosophizing. It was Plato who called philosophy "the practice of death," practicing for the moment the soul is liberated from the body and returns to the forms, the light, to the eternal, the Sukhavati (the Pure Land of Shonin's Buddhism). But this death practicing is not sad business, it is, as the birds make so clear, joyful and fun.


Monday, November 20, 2006

Dollar Coins, YAY, Nixon BOO!

posted by on November 20 at 4:59 PM

The dollar coin is coming back atcha, but minus those loser ladies that appeared on the failed 1999 and 2000 batches.

I loved and spent my Sacagawea dollars, like a good citizen unafraid of the fickle U.S. mint, but I'm just not sure about more dead presidents. Especially when, as forecast for the year 2016, Richard Nixon gets his turn on the merry-go-round.

Via Urban Honking.

Notes From The Prayer Warrior

posted by on November 20 at 4:44 PM

The Prayer Warrior has returned from the hunt...

unknown.gif

November 20, 2006

Dear Prayer Warrior,

Thanks for Praying for my hunting trip God gave me tremendous influence over the men in the group.

Pray from me as I co-host the morning show with David Bose on KTTH 770 AM, Wednesday, November and 29 and Thursday, November 30, 2006.

Your Pastor,
Hutch


Friday, November 17, 2006

Craftwork: The Remnants

posted by on November 17 at 3:13 PM

As part of Craftwork: The Stranger's Tribute to Cool People Making Cool Crafty Shit That You Can Purchase and Give and Thus Not Be an Asshole Who Shops at Urban Outfitters, we interviewed some pairs of items, one made far away (generally in China, as is the case with the Piece of Crap below) very likely under unspeakable circumstances (by children being waterboarded, probably) and one made right here at home by a cool person under appropriately ventilated/lit/etc. conditions. We call this Piece of Crap Vs. Piece of Craft. Here's one (interviews by our own dear David Schmader) that was left on the cutting room floor (due to space considerations only!).
Gap_bag.JPG
Piece of Crap
You're part of the Gap sub-brand "1969.” What's that meant to signify?
I celebrate the very important year that saw the Beatles release Sgt. Pepper, Castro lead the Cuban revolution, and Martin Luther King Jr. deliver his "I have a dream” speech. I am a classic yet revolutionary bag [$39.50, marked down to $19.99 at time of purchase].
Actually, Sgt. Pepper came out in 1967, the Cuban revolution began in 1953 and ended in 1959, and Martin Luther King Jr. was assassinated before 1969 even began.
Oh.
Speaking of lies, I totally love those Audrey-Hepburn-as-dancing-corpse commercials. What's next?
The Gap's Christmas ads will feature the socially conscious hiphop artist Common, who'll rap the self-penned "Holiday in Your Hood.”
Are you fucking kidding me?
No.

Alchemy_bag.JPG
Piece of Craft
You're described as being "recycled.” What does that mean?
My body is made of inner tubes procured from Seattle bike shops then cut open, washed, and stitched together. My strap is a seatbelt from the junkyard. My actual percentage of recycled materialthe highest possibleis featured in my Alchemy Goods logo.
So you're made of junk.
Yes, but really good junk. My seatbelt strap is super-strong, wide, and comfortable. And not only is my rubber body thoroughly water- and stain-proof, over time the tubes develop a finish that gives them the feeling of fine Italian leather. I am a bag of virtue and of beauty [$148, alchemygoods.com], for reals.

Overheard at Lunch

posted by on November 17 at 1:55 PM

Three businessmen walk into Stellina, the lunch place in the middle of all that construction on 12th Avenue. They are all wearing blue dress shirts and nice watches. They have RAFN hard hats and clipboards with spreadsheets on them. They were clearly just on a site visit. A huge, messy, block-wide construction projectthis onetakes up the window behind them.

"Well, that was pretty macho."

"From here we can see it all."

"Becoming real."

"It's exciting."

Overheard in the Office

posted by on November 17 at 1:51 PM

Just now:

Barnett to Savage: "Here, have some bubble wrap and shut up!"

[Random giggling, multiple, violent-sounding pops]

And earlier:

Mudede to Frizzelle: "Christopher, the music in my head is a jukebox; yours is a karaoke machine."

The Prime Suspect

posted by on November 17 at 11:37 AM

What time eats:
helen+mirren.jpg "O douleur! o douleur! Le Temps mange la vie/Et l obscur Ennemi qui nous ronge le coeur/Du sang que nous perdons croit et se fortifie!"

Dan Savage "Is Looking to Convert" to Judaism

posted by on November 17 at 11:23 AM

Hey boss, is it true?

Tombstone 2.0

posted by on November 17 at 11:07 AM

The gravesite of one dead Jewish Great-Grandfather has just gotten a little more dynamic. Relatives of the fantastically-named Hyman Victor connected his tombstone via satellite to his real immortal resting place -- several internet sites with information about his life and family.

gravestone.jpg

While these include the expected links to geneology sites, you can also visit his Flikr photo stash and Facebook profile. This upsets the whole concept of burial: that there is one (possibly grassy) place where your dead great-grandfather resides and visiting him there is part of the memorial process. Now dead great-grandfathers can reside in multiple non-physical places, as well, and "visiting" them via clicking through links on your desktop isn't the same asthetic or personal experience at all as driving to the cemetery and standing at a graveside. Especially when their post-mortem profile can bump shoulders with Hugh Foskett's.

It increases accessibilty, it increases ease, it increases the deceased's relevance to those still alive (young relatives will probably connect more with a Flickr photo collection available on their bedroom laptops than a hunk of stone located outside Chicago) and, for better or worse, it seems a sort of immortality. Information about the person can still be collected and gathered and shared -- his internet personage is growing and changing while his actual person is in the ground. As long as his family keeps the sites running (and assuming they keep upgrading the sites as the Internet develops) his internet self could exist and grow forever.*

The family will definitely be criticized for trying to create internet immortality for Hyman (they'll probably also be criticized for having a tacky video display in a graveyard) but I, for one, think Hyman Victor's visage is worth preserving as long as possible. Just check out that sweet hat. Let us never forget the vast superiority of 1940s fashion sense.

deadguysweethatjpg.jpg
Via boingboing

*"forever" meaning "until the end of the relevance of the human race" which will definitely be sooner than any of us would hope, due to global warming or robots or whatever.

Reading in Bars; or, Kathleen Wilson, I Miss You

posted by on November 17 at 10:48 AM

A couple months ago, I tried to read a book in a bar and it didn't go well. Someone on Slog reminded me that Kathleen Wilson, former Stranger columnist, had done a very similar column three years earlier. I was always a fan of Kathleen's writingpeople never believe me when I say this, because my taste in books runs toward the "serious" and "literary"but her writing was forceful, merciless, and wickedly fun. Lo and behold, her column about other people giving you grief in bars while you're trying to read is a lot better than mine. Check it.

By the way, a reader wrote to me last week about this very issue.

I've been meaning to recommend this place to you since the first time you wrote that article about trying to read at Purr. The Stumbling Monk. Unfortunately, there's only beer there, but it's good beer. I've gone there to read many times. They have counters with lamps that just seem specifically placed for readers. Even on weekends it's fairly quietpeople playing backgammon or chess. Occasionally there'll be a raucous discussion group, but I've never been unable to read there, and certainly I've never been mocked for reading there.

Thanks, Bill. I'll try it out.


Thursday, November 16, 2006

Last Night in Food News

posted by on November 16 at 1:23 PM

After seeing Native Son last night at IntimanMudede's review is here [he somehow fails to mention Felicia V. Loud, who is the best part of the whole friggin' show]I went to Mecca Cafe to get a milkshake. First we sat in the bar. My date ordered a cocktail. I ordered a milkshake. But the bartender refused to serve me a milkshake because, he said, if I ordered it from him, he'd have to make it, and he didn't want to make one. So we went and sat in the restaurant part and my date ordered a cocktail and fries and I ordered a milkshake. "Nope, no milkshakes," the waitress said. When pressed, she said they were out of ice cream.

Let me give you some help, Mecca: You're supposed to have milkshakes. You are a late-night diner. You are not a gourmet destination. You are a milkshakes-and-fries destination. Your fries last night were fantastic, don't get me wrong. But you know what's even more fantastic? Fries and a milkshake. The holy combination! You, Mecca, are here on Earth to provide milkshakes to people. Not having milkshakes, or not being willing to make milkshakes for people, or whatever the problem isthat ain't right.

Goodnight, Milt

posted by on November 16 at 12:45 PM

Milton Friedman, the laissez-faire economist and spiritual father of the Chicago School, has cashed in his options. (Full story here.)

There's a lot to say about the man: His rejection of Keynesianism, his conservative anti-statism, the whole Pinochet thing. For now, let's admire the fact that he lived as he taught, and credited his life and fortune to laissez-faire happenstance:

Friedman attributed his success to "accidents": the immigration of his teenage parents from Czechoslovakia, enabling him to be an American and not a citizen of a Soviet bloc state; the skill of a high-school geometry teacher who showed him a connection between John Keats's "Ode on a Grecian Urn" and the Pythagorean theorem, allowing him to see the beauty in the mathematical truth that the square of the sides of a right triangle equals the square of the hypotenuse; the scholarship to Rutgers, where he had Arthur Burns and Homer Jones as teachers.
In his first economic-theory class at Chicago, Friedman was the beneficiary of another accident - that his last name began with an "F." The class was seated alphabetically, and he was placed next to Rose Director, a master's degree candidate from Oregon. That seating arrangement shaped his whole life, he said. He married Director six years later. She became an important economist in her own right, then helped Friedman form his ideas and maintain his intellectual rigor.

Also notable: His name is an anagram for "a mint field morn" and "Lenin mad for Tim."

"They put my sperm into a stranger's vagina."

posted by on November 16 at 12:30 PM

That's the money quote in the lead from Stranger news writer Angela Valdez's finely reported, finely written story that's up on Salon right now about a wild paternity lawsuit in Oregon. The story starts off like a bad joke: So a couple walks into a fertility clinic and the guy's sperm ends up in the wrong woman.

Anyway, check out Angela's story!

We have on our hands the beginning of an epidemic.

posted by on November 16 at 12:22 PM

The one thing that would have made this sweeter is a playground full of witnesses.

A man is accused of having sex with the carcass of a deer that he found lying beside the road--but his lawyer denies that he committed bestiality, on the grounds that a dead deer isn't an animal any more.

...

[Public defender Fredric Anderson] gave the example of a roast turkey with which it would be illegal to have sex under the broader interpretation of the law claiming that it was unreasonable to suggest it should still be classified as an animal for the purposes of law.

...

Judge Michael Lucci noted when hearing the arguments that: 'I'm a little surprised this issue hasn't been tackled before in another case.'

I wasn't aware fucking roadkill was such a hot-button issue, but now that I am, I'll be thinking about this (tempt me not, sweet succubus!):

roadkill_deer.jpg

and carefully pondering the rights of ardent carcass fuckers everywhere. I mean, it's not like his loving was hurting anyone, right?

If Hathaway is convicted, he could serve up to two years in prison, because of a previous conviction in 2005 for shooting dead a horse called Bambrick. So that he could have sex with it.

Oh.


Wednesday, November 15, 2006

Barney Fife Arrested in Failed Kidnapping

posted by on November 15 at 4:43 PM

From MSNBC:

WICHITA, Kan. - A botched kidnapping ended with one of the assailants shooting himself in the groin, Wichita police said.

The man had just stuck the gun back into his waistband when it fired, shooting him in the left testicle. He cringed, causing the gun to fire again and strike him in the left calf.

Walk Toward the Light

posted by on November 15 at 3:47 PM

I've never enjoyed airplanestoo paranoid about crashes and bombs and terrorists and cooties to ever "sit back, relax, and enjoy the flight”but I have reconciled myself to airports. I've actually come to enjoy airports. I look at it this way: When you're in an airport, you're not on an airplane. You survived the flight or you have yet to boardeither way, the airport is preferable to the airplane in every possible way.

Not only can you get up and walk around, you can have yourself a drink (I'm a regular at a bar in the Minneapolis airport), surf the web, work, and watch people. But most importantly, again, when I'm in the airport and not in the air... I don't have to stress out about my imminent demise. My head isn't flooded by mental images of planes exploding or breaking into pieces (thanks, Lost). When I'm on the ground, I'm not thinking about my death.

Until yesterday, when I had to get to the "C” gates at Detroit's airport. Look at this picture...

DetroitSpooky.jpg

It's a long, dark hallway, with diffuse and moody blue lighting. Oh, and there's a soundtrack: spooky, ethereal, wind-chimey music. And all you have to do to get to your gate... is...

Walk toward the light.

Christ Almighty. I like Detroit's airportit's nothing like Detroit properI try to schedule layovers here to break up long flights to the East Coast. (Yes, yes: the most dangerous parts of a flight are the takeoffs and landings, and by breaking my trips up I'm actually putting myself in greater danger. I never said my fear of flying was rational.) But no more "C" gate flights from Detroit again. Ever.

I mean, whose bright idea was it to simulate of a near-death experience for passengers about to board an aircraft?

Son of Man's Best Friend

posted by on November 15 at 2:01 PM

As we enter this holiday season, let us take a moment to reflect on the special gift of life that has been given to us, and witness the manifestation of what can only be called a miracle.

courtesy of Bowlds

Sex on a plane

posted by on November 15 at 12:01 PM

A new form of terror, or innocent homeopathic remedy?

A couple's ill-concealed sexual play aboard a Southwest Airlines flight from Los Angeles got them charged with violating the Patriot Act, intended for terrorist acts, and could land them in jail for 20 years.

"Persing was observed nuzzling or kissing Sewell on the neck, and ... with his face pressed against Sewell's vaginal area. During these actions, Sewell was observed smiling," reads the indictment filed by the Federal Bureau of Investigation.

On a second warning from the flight attendant, Persing snapped back threatening the flight attendant with "serious consequences" if he did not leave them alone.

The comment was enough to have the couple, both in their early 40s, arrested when the plane reached its destination in Raleigh, North Carolina, and charged with obstructing a flight attendant and with criminal association.

According to his lawyer: Persing suffers from a chronic disease requiring medication that makes him drowsy, dizzy and irritable.

A chronic disease which recalled Persing's head to his partner's vagina like a homing pigeon, because everyone knows that nuzzling vaginas is a motherfucking cure-all. Bad day at the office? Stick your head in a vagina. Chronic migraine got you down? Tea-cozy that sucker. It's why I do pilates.

My sympathies lie with the supposed "terrorists". Here's hoping both defendants find vaginas to console themselves in during this difficult time.

Signs of the Times

posted by on November 15 at 11:45 AM

Looks like Washington isn't the only state with a 25' rule...

25Feet1.jpg

25Feet2.jpg

25Feet3.jpg


Tuesday, November 14, 2006

O Litigious World!

posted by on November 14 at 4:59 PM

All these stories about people suing over their humiliating appearances in Borat are really sadnot because they were tricked into being worse than they are, but because they were tricked into being just as they are.

There is this story (referenced in today's Morning News) about a fraternity brother who is suing over his portrayal as a drunken, racist buffoon. The following is a photo from his myspace page (note the wall decor):

1113061borat3.jpg

Even sadder is this story about the Romanians in the real-life village of Glod (literally: "mud") who want to sue over their collective portrayal as violent, superstitious wife-beaters. When reporters showed up to ask about the suit:

One man was seen slapping his sister, who had appeared in the film, and slamming the gate to his ramshackle home shut to keep her from being interviewed. At another point, a resident threatened news photographers with a stick, and another pelted their car with rocks.

In all fairness, the villagers are also suing for being paid only a few dollars for letting animals shit in their houses and unknowingly strapping sex toys to their bodies. Meanwhile, Borat is raking in the millions. It must be aggravating to realize you've been bought for .00001% of the wealth you've helped generatemaybe even more aggravating than being portrayed as unflatteringly close to your true self.

Today in Neandertals

posted by on November 14 at 1:42 PM

Neandertals weren't homo sapiens. They were hominids, like chimps and gorillas and orangutans. And if Neandertals weren't technically humanif they were, in fact, animalsthen this new research at the University of Chicago means that we're descended from a little bestial dalliance.

Which, at first, sounds unpalatable. But should speciesism stand in the way of Middle Paleolithic love? And what early man could pass up the roguish charms of this young womaer, I mean, thing?

180px-Neanderthaler-Woman.jpg

Also: Looks like the Neandertals helped us grow big brains, created the elegantly-named Châtelperronian tool technique, and might have carved the world's first flute out of a bear femur (that, or somebody did some fortuitous chewing).

I don't care if you weren't all the way human, Neandertals. You're all right by me. And, should any of your robust proto-women return from extinction, I will seriously consider any requests to uphold the family tradition and go on a date. (Australopithecines need not apply.)


Monday, November 13, 2006

Revelations: Dancing banned at Suburban Seattle college

posted by on November 13 at 3:47 PM

I went swing dancing last night at the Century Ballroom up here on Capitol Hill, which I discovered is a popular scene with the Mars Hill twentysomething crowd, since it's pretty much the only good, clean fun to be had late at night. I met a girl, though, who was there surreptitiously. She was bustin' a move despite the whispered fact that if word of her dancing got back to administrators at her college, she would be in serious trouble. Disciplined for dancing? By a college? Turns out the salacious swinger is a student at the Christian Northwest University, a 1,240 student school in Kirkland where dancing is banned because "a significant number of evangelical Christians view social dancing as a questionable activity." Can't resist the temptation of a God-given passion for the dance? That's alright, "Some forms of choreographed movements in academic or collegiate activities, under the advisement and supervision of University personnel, however, may be acceptable." Homosexual practices are also banned, but the handbook doesn't make any caveats for that.

It's not like I haven't heard that some folk still consider dancing a punishable affront to morality -- I have a friend who goes to a Christian college that bans dancing. But that college is in Texas. I had no idea such a stringent scholastic stronghold exists 20 minutes from Capitol Hill.

"A lot of churches that we're affiliated with have frowned on or forbade a variety of activities," explained Northwest Vice President of Marketing Merlin Quiggle (yes, real name) when I called the school today, "Going to movies, bowling, dancing, wearing make-up, but as times change and cultural mores change, some of these become more palatable and some don't." Bowling? Upgraded to morally acceptable. Dancing? Still not digestable, apparently. But some dancing is fine, like at last week's talent show where two girls performed dances. The school makes a distinction between solo dancing (for art of performance, okayed as the aforementioned "choreographed movement in academic or collegiate activities") and social dancing, which is (as Quiggle put it) "in the dark, probably aided and abetted by alcohol and designed for proximity between bodies."

It all comes down to the role of a college, says Quiggle, and Northwest approaches in loco parentis more "actively" than, say, Evergreen State. "We're not in the Dark Ages on this," he explains, noting that well-known Midwestern Christian school Wheaton College recieved mainstream praise but some church scorn when it struck down its dancing ban two years ago.

But isn't college a place where young adults are supposed to be learning for themselves how to make smart, responsible decisions and choices on their own, rather than having their lives be guided by a set of rules that replaces the restrictions of living with one's parents? That's the logic Wheaton gave when it struck down its ban:

"Students need to learn how to make responsible choices," said Sam Shellhamer, vice president for student development. "We want to make students learn how to think critically, be discerning and learn how to make wise choices."

Although Northwest students can't decide whether to dance or drink, argues Quiggle, they still learn about responsible decision-making by choosing how they spend their money and time. They can choose how much to eat in the dining hall, for example. "If you want to waste your time and drink 18 cups of coffee, you can," says Quiggle.

My main question, though, is what happens to students who do participate in back-alley dancing. I know my Texas friend has secret behind-closed-dorm-doors dance parties -- would she or the Century Ballroom's salacious swinger be expelled? Quiggle says neither would probably be punished very harshly but, more importantly, most students don't want to dance at all. At least a third of the school is men, after all, who have little or no interest in dancing. And the female students don't really care. "Most of the students come from a context where they didn't dance and don't miss it," says Quiggle, "Students are too engaged in academics or preparing for a life in the ministry to have a strong sense about what they're missing." There's lots to do on campus -- kids don't even notice the lack of dancing, wine-tasting and poker tournaments because there's athletics, a music program and three chaples a week to fill time and energy. He says that, as VP of Marketing, he often meets with students about how to improve the school. Students have never mentioned the dance-ban to him.

More than anything, I want to attend a Northwest campus underground rave. And change my name to Merlin Quiggle.

Wingnut Driscoll At It Again

posted by on November 13 at 2:52 PM

Mars Hill pastor Mark Driscoll's blog is always a rich trove of anti-woman, homobigoted wingnuttery. (Take his post two weeks ago, in which he blamed Ted Haggard's wife for her husband's dalliances with a male prostitute; after all, when a woman "lets herself go" and fails to fulfill her Godly role by spreading her legs whenever her man wants it, what choice does he have but to pay male prostitutes for meth-fueled sex?) In that same post, Driscoll criticized churches that let women serve as pastors' assistants, saying that such women tend to "become too emotionally involved with the pastor as a sort of emotional and practical second wife." (For the record, he suggested a young man would be a better pastor's helper.)

Well, Driscoll's at it again. In this week's post, he takes on Episcopalians, women, and The Gays, accusing the Episcopal Church of apostasy for appointing a "pro-feminist, pro-homosexuality" gaspwoman to head the national church. "In related news," Driscoll notes (sarcastically?), "the testosterone levels of male Americans has dropped significantly in the past twenty years."

All of this has led this blogger to speculate that if Christian males do not man up soon, the Episcopalians may vote a fluffy baby bunny rabbit as their next bishop to lead God's men. When asked for their perspective, some bunny rabbits simply said that they have been discriminated against long enough and that people need to "Get over it."

Because women are the intellectual and moral equivalent of fluffy little bunniesget it? So get out there, Christian men, and start putting those little bunniesuh, womenin their place. After all, if they don't understand that they belong in the kitchen or on their backs, they might start getting some "pro-feminist" ideas about equality and human rights and stuff.


Saturday, November 11, 2006

A Finale to an Uncanny Week.

posted by on November 11 at 7:26 PM

The Stranger just made True Hoop one of the best NBA blogs on the Internets.

Ha! This gay paper says:

Ladies leave your man at home
The club is full of ballers and their pockets full grown
And all you fellas leave your girl with her friends
Cause it's eleven thirty and the club is jumpin', jumpin'

Bolt For Your Life

posted by on November 11 at 5:00 PM

A great bolt of lightning struck Seattle a moment ago. The flash and roar of it filled this Pioneer Square cafe. But how harmless lightning is in this city of clouds. It never really kills or injures. Its roar is the roar of a toothless lion. Lightning here is reduced to nothing more than fireworks. Back home in Zimbabwe, even in the city of Harare, lightning was a real killer. You feared it like the folks in the Old Testament feared the fury of God. Particularly in the Inyangas, the Highlands (Zimbabwe's mountain region), the location of my tribe, the Chimanicas, and my tribe's capital city, Mutare: when you suddenly saw a bright flash, you were happy you saw that bright flash because if you didn't see it--yaahwee!--that brief crack of light was your exit from life.


Friday, November 10, 2006

Whole Foods obsession/ guilt

posted by on November 10 at 9:18 AM

I have now visited the new Whole Foods in South Lake Union twice. A few observations: it seems to be 60 percent prepared food. I overheard some workers talking about whether the grocery part of the grocery store would get any business. The food is amazingly expensive. More than $7 a pound for all the hot bar stuff. In Portland, the same stuff is about $6 a pound. Anyway, I still love it. I am a sucker. The limited selection you get because of the emphasis on prepared food also makes me wonder: Is it going to become harder to find specific items, or more expensive? My obsession with grocery stores is not just high-end. On a recent visit to White Center I spent a long time goofing off in a grocery store that was half Vietnamese, half Mexican. Masa harina right by the fish balls. And good prices too. Despite all the talk of diversity, though, I don't think anyone is making five spice tacos. I might start.

Today's Most Controversial Post

posted by on November 10 at 9:00 AM

No cripples on the viaduct.

No, wait. That's not what I meant. Don't know where that came from. They can have the viaduct. What I don't think should be allowedever, ever, everis the use of a credit or debit card in a line at a coffee shop in the morning. Today it was one dumbfuck after another whipping out plastic to pay for their $3 coffee, the numbers on each having to he hand-entered by the slow-moving barista because the shop's swiper isn't reading cards for some reason.

This happens all the time, and I've had it. If you don't have five bucks in your pocket, or you don't have enough change at home to scrounge up $3 to pay for your fucking coffee, then fucking go without. Or wait at the end of the line until after they're done waiting on folks who brought cash and/or exact change. Christ!


Thursday, November 9, 2006

Jesus Camp to Close

posted by on November 9 at 5:11 PM

The camp featured in Jesus Camp will close due to harassment from angry liberals.

But at least little 12-year-old Emily, a Kids on Fire camper in 2003, got the chance to teach her friend how to speak in tongues... in the bathtub!:

"The night Uncle Leon prayed for me I was on the floor bawling, and my tummy was shaking. I was down there for like an hour. There were so many kids piled up on the floor and there was no room for me, so I was moved to a bench where I continued to cry and shake until God was done with me."

[ . . . ]

"Just a week ago two of my cousins where here from the cities. They are both girls and are our age. We were in the attic playing and just having fun when I felt led to pray for my cousin about praying in tongues. So we went in the bathroom so we would not be interrupted. She said she wanted to speak in tongues, so we got in the bath tub. I told her a little about what it was like. Then I said that when we got out of the tub that she would be speaking in tongues. I prayed for her and I felt electricity go through my arms. When we got out of the tub she was able to speak in tongues."

Ummm.


Wednesday, November 8, 2006

Postman on Language

posted by on November 8 at 7:06 PM

Writing about "the M-word," Postman asks:

If Sen. George Allen, R-Va., is in a close race, in part, because he used an offensive racial term, why has it been OK for the media to keep using macaca, including for comedic effect?

I don't know, but Wonkette, the most prolific user of the "M-word" for comedic effect, today outdid "herself" with a recount-related headline that began, Macacalypse Now?

Chinese Population Control: Not Just for Babies Anymore

posted by on November 8 at 6:24 PM

Coming in tomorrow's New York Times:

"Only one pet dog is allowed per household in the zones, and dangerous and large dogs will be banned,” the news agency said. "Anyone keeping an unlicensed dog will face prosecution.”

At least it's a great day for the Pekingese!

pekingese_01a.jpg


Tuesday, November 7, 2006

The Return of Steve Irwin

posted by on November 7 at 2:39 PM

So loved, so missed, so painfully felt is the loss of the crocodile hunter that his countrymen have decided to do the impossible, to do whatever it takes to bring him back to life.