Boooooooooooooooooooo

The worst beating at the Orange Bowl wasn't the 55 point USC hung on Oklahoma, but the boos that rained on Ashlee Simpson and the halftime show. I don't know who their target audience was, but is the Orange Bowl Committee and ABC so out of it that a Kelly Clarkson, Trace Adkins and Ashlee Simpson medley sound like a good idea? Especially to an audience of drunk, male football fans?

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Ashlee Simpson's Halftime Performance Falls Flat
Boo Birds Descend On Pop Act's Live Performance
Andrew Pulskamp, Staff Writer

SEE IT, HEAR IT

Ashlee Simpson's Orange Bowl halftime performance ended with the screeching line, "You make me want to scream," but all the crowd wanted to do was boo.
Watch Our Slideshow Of What Happened
Simpson's performance topped off a halftime act that featured American Idol Kelly Clarkson, country star Trace Atkins and a host of technical problems.
Simpson, the act's finale, fell flat in front of the 72,000-plus Orange Bowl crowd. The camera zoomed in on Simpson's face just as the boos started raining down then quickly cut away.

Torture

Rumors have been flying today that the U.S. has captured Abu Musab al-Zarqawi, Iraq's top al Qaeda terrorist. The Drudge Report says U.S. military and intelligence sources are denying the report, but we sure hope they're true--not just for the obvious reason, but also because confirmation hearings are about to begin for Attorney General-designate Alberto Gonzales.

Bizarre as it may sound, the Democrats apparently intend to accuse Gonzales of being insufficiently kind to America's terrorist enemies--presumably including Zarqawi, if he's captured alive. In a column today, the Washington Post's Richard Cohen http://www.washingtonpost.com/wp-dyn/articles/A45936-2005Jan3.html likens the interrogation of terrorists, which he dubs "torture," to the tactics of the totalitarian state in George Orwell's "1984." Lost on Cohen is the distinction between trying to control the thoughts of innocent citizens and trying to prevent mass murder by extracting information from terrorists.

Obviously gratuitous abuses like those at Abu Ghraib are intolerable, and the perpetrators should be prosecuted (as they are being). But Cohen's and the Democrats' obsession with treating terrorists nicely bespeaks a dangerous moral vanity. They seem to think it is worth increasing the risk of another 9/11--or worse--in order for America to avoid the taint of being accused by the likes of the Red Cross of acts "tantamount to torture," whatever that means.

Magic Gardens

A couple of months ago, I did a reading at Powell's bookstore in Portland, which drew more than forty people. That was a huge crowd for me, so after my sister dropped me off at my hotel, I decided I had to celebrate by eating dessert at a place called Voodoo Donuts, which I'd read several articles about and had probably seen on the Food Network. Voodoo Donuts is famous for, among other things, crullers shaped like blunts, which sell for a dime on the frequent occasions that the police arrest a member of the Portland Trailblazers. I wrote the address on a sticky note and set my stomach for gorge. Portland's downtown has reached that delightful midpoint of gentrification where it's safe to walk around without fear of anything worse than getting panhandled, but it's also still kind of weird and interesting. Those kinds of blocks are growing short in America, and have now been essentially reduced to much of Philadelphia, downtown Los Angeles and Portland. I try to walk them whenever I get the chance, collecting memories of eclectic street scenery like outsider art. Voodoo Donuts proved elusive. I couldn't find the address I'd written down. There I went past Mary's, Portland's most famous strip club, kind of a low-rent Coyote Ugly but without the pretense. I was a man alone and unsupervised on a business trip. People like me attach themselves to such places like tapeworms to intestine. But no. I wanted donuts, so I turned left. A few blocks later, I approached some cops who were on horseback. They would almost certainly know where to find the donuts. "Voodoo Donuts?" said the lady cop. "I've heard of them, but I don't know where the shop is." "How is that possible?" I said. The cop gave me a nasty look. "I think they're that way," she said, and pointed. They weren't. I got to the highway. No donuts. By then, I'd been walking for a half hour. I found a dark patch of grass, relieved myself, and walked back from whence I'd come. Great. Now I was horny. Portland has more strip clubs than convenience stores. In some cities, visiting a hoochie joint is a palm-sweater or an Interstate detour. In Portland, it's easier than buying a stick of gum. But I still had my red-state habits. My thoughts felt illicit and dirty. I found myself in front of a rock club that, like every business in Portland, had a strip joint upstairs. Something called the Eagles Of Death Metal, which I later learned is a great band that I really should have seen, was playing. Next to me were three women who looked like they could be Suicide Girls. Maybe they were Suicide Girls! "The Eagles Of Death Metal!" I said. "That sounds like a fun band!" "They're awesome," said one of them. "I can't decide whether or not I want to go inside," I said. "Whether or not you want to go inside where?" one of them said, and then they were done with me. At that point, I abandoned all mental pretense. I needed a lap dance. And yes, for those of you who care, my wife knows about this story. I asked at a convenience store and at a club that looked too expensive for me. The guy at the convenience store gave me a map of local strip joints. The woman working the door at the expensive club said, "If I had to choose one strip club downtown, it would be Magic Gardens." So to Magic Gardens I went. Magic Gardens wasn't magic, nor was it garden-like, unless your idea of a garden is a crappy neighborhood bar with a beer-soaked carpet, a ripped pool table and a toxic kitchen. A naked woman danced on a stage in the middle. I bought a three-dollar Heineken in a can. She left the stage. Another woman took her place. I watched as the first woman took a guy over to a corner and began to whip her legs over his head and talk to him like she enjoyed his company. Mmmm. She was tasty. When they were done, I said to the guy, "so is that how it works here?" He looked at me like I was a disease. "That's how it works everywhere," he said. I took a seat front and center, which hardly mattered because I was the only guy seated near the stage at all. I watched as my preferred woman churned stiffly to a Jacques Brel song. In Portland, most strippers get to choose their own music. There's none of this "Dude Looks Like a Lady"- while-straddling-a-greased-pole crap. She slid down the rail in front of me and thrust her naked ass in my face. I tossed a fiver her way and raised my eyebrows suggestively. "I like your music," I said. "Thanks," she said. After the song, I went up to her. "Um," I said. "How much for um?" "You want a table dance?" she said. "Yes," I said. "It's twenty dollars a song." "I can afford that." Her name was April. She took me into a secluded corner and sat me in a black-vinyl topped chair. "There's no table," April said. "That's fine," I said. April began to wiggle around me, very naked. "So what do you do?" she asked. "I'm a writer," I said. "Really?" she said. "Like Chuck Palanhiuk?" "Sort of." "I was just asking because I know a lot of people who've fucked him." "Oh," I said. April stopped dancing. "I'm sorry," she said. "I ran a marathon last weekend, and my legs are really tired." "No problem," I said. She then sat down in a chair across from me, so I was paying twenty bucks to have a conversation with a naked woman. I thought: I'd have the same conversation if I met her at a party. We probably know a lot of the same kinds of people. April was a painter; she worked in her garage when she wasn't stripping. "Really?" I said. "My wife is a painter." "That's cool," she said. "So what's the art scene like here?" I asked. I had copies of my books in my shoulder bag. Maybe, I thought, I could personalize them and give them to April as a tip. But I didn't, because I needed them for the following night's reading in Seattle. "Wow," she said. "I'll have to read them." The song ended. "Do you want another song?" she said. I thought about this. "You don't have to say yes," she said. "I'm not a hustler." "Okay, then," I said. "No." I handed her the twenty, plus a little extra. "Send yourself to grad school," I said. As I left Magic Gardens, I felt whatever the opposite of an erotic charge must feel like. It was going to take a lot of effort if I wanted to jerk off before going to sleep. I smelled dough, and then I saw the sign. Voodoo Donuts! "Boy, am I glad to see you!" I said to the donut clerk. "Whatever," he said. I ate a blunt, and something else with Oreos and marshmallows on it, and then a chocolate long john to wash them down. It took everything I had not to say "Ahm nam nam nam nam! Cookie!" while I was eating them. At last, I'd found release.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR:

Neal Pollack is the author of The Neal Pollack Anthology Of American Literature, Beneath The Axis Of Evil, and Never Mind the Pollacks: A Rock and Roll Novel. For a daily dose of his satirical brilliance, visit his website, www.nealpollack.com. He lives in Austin, Texas.

Oh Billy!

http://new.wavlist.com/movies/048/cg-ohbilly.wav

Great Book

I just finished this book- it is great!

M C S W E E N E Y ' S Q U A R T E R L Y C O N C E R N N O . 1 3
E d i t e d b y C h r i s W a r e
When Dave Eggers' literary periodical turned its attention to graphical storytelling in issue 13, guest editor Chris Ware made it the definitive survey of sophisticated comix at the dawn of the 21st century. The hardcover book is printed in full color and exquisitely designed by Ware, including a jacket that unfolds into a poster depicting the history of God, Man and Comix. No anthology has ever collected this many of the top North American cartooning talents, nor looked so gorgeous. Robert Crumb, Chester Brown, the Hernandez Brothers, Lynda Barry and Art Spiegelman are just a few of the contributors whose work mixes reprints with new material. Ware also makes sure to introduce a few unknown creators with potential. Loosely grouped into genres, including fiction, journalism, autobiography and the experimental, works are accompanied by comix-themed prosody from the likes of John Updike and Glen David Gold. Perfectly edited and designed to appeal to novices and comixcenti alike, "McSweeney's" #13 sets the stage for the comix of the future.

French Politics

There may be hope for France yet...

"Although they spring from the same political family, Mr Chirac and Mr Sarkozy embody two quite different and competing ideas about the future of France. Mr Chirac is a neo-Gaullist conservative who believes that French power should be projected through a strong Europe, built on the Franco-German axis and forming a counterbalance to the United States. At home, he defends the costly but comfortable French social model. And he believes that France's Muslim population—Europe's biggest, at around 5m strong—is best served by traditional means of integration: strict separation of religion and state, and equal treatment of individuals before the law. “There is no crisis,” says one of his advisers. “Therefore, there is no need for fundamental reform.”
Mr Sarkozy, by contrast, has no time for tradition for tradition's sake. In an enlarged Europe, he argues that France can no longer rely on the Franco-German motor and needs to cultivate a group of six that also includes Britain, Spain, Italy and Poland. Atlantic-minded, he urges a milder approach to America. He advocates an overhaul of the French social model, pushing for less state regulation and a more flexible labour market; his inspirations are Britain and Spain, not moribund Germany. He considers that the French model of integration has failed French Muslims, and argues for American-style social engineering to help minorities advance. In short, where Mr Chirac urges caution and conservatism, Mr Sarkozy presses for modernisation and change. “France is not eternal,” says one of his aides. “If it does not reform, it will disappear.”

Chinese Cars

The Detroit News reports that Malcolm Bricklin, the entrepreneur who brought Subaru and the Yugo to the US, has signed the first-ever deal to import Chinese cars to the US.
Bricklin’s new company, Visionary Vehicles LLC, backed by Allen & Co., is working with Chery Automobile Co. The deal will be announced formally at the upcoming Detroit auto show.
"The plan is to import up to 250,000 Chinese-made cars annually beginning in 2007.
The sale of the first Chinese vehicles to American consumers will be a watershed event both in the United States, where Asian automakers have been steadily taking market share from Detroit's Big Three, and in China, where hard-charging manufacturers like Chery are eager to expand globally.
Bricklin said that privately held Visionary Vehicles has committed to invest $200 million in the new product program at Chery—China’s eighth-biggest automaker—for the U.S. market. [...]
While Bricklin is chief executive officer of Visionary Vehicles, its management board is chaired by William vanden Heuvel, a senior advisor to Allen & Co. and former deputy U.S. representative to the United Nations.
In a recent interview with The News, vanden Heuvel compared the potential of bringing Chinese cars to the United States to the entrance of Japanese automakers into the American market more than 30 years ago.
“We think the opportunity is huge to be the first to go to market,” vanden Heuvel said. “It’s exactly the situation that Japan was in starting out.” [...]
“What I do best is import cars, and this is the most incredible opportunity in the car business,” [Bricklin] said. “I’d like to look at it as being the next Toyota.”
Bricklin said that Chery has engaged the Italian design houses Pininfarina and Bertone to design its U.S. models, and has contracted with the Austrian engineering firm AVL to develop new engines. [...]
Bricklin expects the automotive world to be skeptical of Chinese imports in the United States, just as it was when he brought in Subarus and Yugos. But with the signing of the Chery agreement, the aging automotive impresario believes he can make history.
“You know, if we don’t make sure these cars are among the best in the world, we’re going to get our ass handed to us,” he said. “But if we do what we’re supposed to do, this could be the deal that changes the industry.”
As the article points out, if not Bricklin, then someone else would do this. Despite the many challenges, the design and engine firms are clearly top-flight. The interesting question—and opportunity for the new venture—is whether or not it will compete solely on price, or whether it can carve out a distinctive product position, as Toyota and Honda did with hybrids.