“During her 11-year reign, Thatcher was the politician who British musicians (and a few non-Brits) of many stripes — ska, punk, rock, New Wave, folk, reggae, even electronic dance music — loved to hate. The vitriolic song titles alone — never mind the lyrics — left listeners in no doubt about the depth of loathing: The English Beat’s ‘Stand Down Margaret’; Heaven 17’s ‘(We Don’t Need This) Fascist Groove Thang’; Klaus Nomi’s ‘Ding Dong! The Witch Is Dead’; The Specials’ ‘Ghost Town’; The Varukers’ ‘Thatcher’s Fortress’; the Larks’ ‘Maggie Maggie Maggie (Out Out Out)’; Morrissey’s ‘Margaret on the Guillotine’; and Elvis Costello’s ‘Tramp the Dirt Down.’”
 — English music about loathed politicians has always been so much better than American music about loathed politicians, hasn’t it?

★★★★ A ragged, eroding island of cloud covered the occupied island below in early afternoon shadow, the latest standoff between irregular gray and weak blue. Away to the west, New Jersey seemed to be in the clear. Peonies with rusty, wilting edges on their petals crowded a sidewalk bucket. People walked slowly and obstructively. Were they enjoying the day or lingering to wait for the day to become enjoyable? A gust of hot air from a kitchen duct broke the chill, at the price of foulness. An elderly man in a tan topcoat, sitting on a red motorized scooter, rattled a change cup. Later, the sun was warm on the cheeks and the breeze was cold on the ears. The toddler paced the apartment building’s garden, casting multiple shadows. A half-uprooted sprinkler rig sprawled its rows of hoses out of a bed of bare dirt and partway onto the neighboring patch of turf. After dinner, the lowering sun charged the haze over the river with more light and color than than the sky.

So, back in the day, there were these things called “sex tapes.” Like people would record themselves having sex on a phone or something, and then they’d email it around, and then, blammo, on the Internet. And people would be like “oh no, don’t show that to everyone, oh my stars.” And then — or maybe from day one! — people would realize the publicity value in this was immense. So then a number of sex tapes “leaked” with varying degrees of publicist denials or threats of legal action. (Most legal action in the sex tape arena has to do with dividing rights for sale. It’s actually a fun aspect of copyright law, too! Like “Oh I am the copyright holder of this sex tape, I was holding up my T-Mobile whilst doing Fred Durst” or whatever.) People love to watch the sex tapes! It was all about the shock and scandal and delight and then judging the doing of the sex acts. Like “oh that person who I’ve never heard of who is now famous sure is good at doing that sex thing.”

So it’s confusing that we’ve finally flipped from covert ops to overt ops in the sex tape arena. Here is a young woman making announcements about her sex tape. Apparently it was shot yesterday! And it is going into edits! And she hired porn star James Deen! And now it is being shopped to porn companies.

This is not a sex tape! This is a good old-fashioned porno. And so we have come full circle.

ALSO MY GOD, we are calling them “tapes,” that is so unreal!

by Richard Morgan

12. Juror #10

11. Juror #9

10. Juror #3

9. Juror #7

8. Juror #4

7. Juror #2

6. Juror #8

5. Juror #6

4. Juror #11

3. Juror #1

2. Juror #5

1. Juror #12

Or judge for yourself. Richard Morgan previously wrote for The Awl about a gay sex party. He cannot serve on a jury because, as a non-citizen, he is not your peer.

Which Is A Worse Piece Of Garbage, Ray J’s Song About Kim Kardashian Or Brad Paisley And L.L. Cool J’s Song About Race Relations?

This week, hip-hop presents us with an interesting problem: Which is more horrible, a song from a second-rate publicity whore rehashing his biggest claim to fame, which happens to have been making a sex tape with a woman who has gone to become far more successful and famous than he has? Or an extraordinarily clunky country-rap hybrid that makes a great mess in its attempt to tackle the difficult subject of race in America. We’d all be better off ignoring both these things — each, from all appearances, created in a cynical effort to drum up otherwise undeserved attention. But their coincidental arrival has me curious. What is worse for the world? It’s a challenging question!

Here’s Ray J’s “I Hit It First”:

If you don’t keep up with the hip-hop gossip side of Twitter (which, if this is the case: Kudos) you might not know that Ray J, Brandy’s younger brother, has said that the song he released last week is not about his old girlfriend Kim Kardashian, the reality television star who was married to the New Jersey Nets Kris Humphries for 72 days in 2011 and is now pregnant with Kanye West’s child. That is a ridiculous lie. The cover image he released to accompanying it is a pixilated version of a famous picture of Kardashian in a bikini, and the chorus of the song is, “She might on to rappers and ballplayers/But we all know I hit it first.” And the opening words of the first verse are, “I had her head going North and her ass going south but now the bitch chose to go West.”

It’s hard to feel bad for Kim Kardashian in a situation like this, because if anyone has ever engineered herself into the position in which she resides, it is her. But still: taunting an ex-lover and her new boyfriend is piggish, piggish, piggish behavior. Never mind the the future feelings of the future kid. And never mind what the expression of such sentiment, in the belief that it will look like some kind of “winning,” says about ones fucked-up sexual politics and the status of women in general. Never mind, even, how badly this song would suck even it were not about such disgusting subject matter. Ray J is a big pile of yuck. It would be nice if he went away forever.

But is that song worse than Brad Paisley and L.L. Cool J with “Accidental Racist?”

No. It is not. “Accidental Racist” accomplishes the seemingly impossible in being worse!

Everything about this is incredible. Really incredibly bad. The melody, the singing, the rapping, everything. Laughably terrible. “The red flag on my chest somehow is like an elephant in the corner of the south,” sings Brad Paisley, mixing all sorts of crazy metaphors crazily. And then, while you’re still trying to figure that out, he says, “And I just walked him in the room!”

The chorus begins as follows: “I’m just a white man/Coming from the/Southland/Trying to understand what it’s like not to be…”

That last part is the best. Again, labyrinthian lyrics, very difficult to follow. First you think there’s something else coming. He’s trying to figure out what it’s like not to be a… But there’s not. So for an instant, you wonder if Brad Paisley is considering his own death, that this song is about deeper existentialist questions than it might have seemed. But then, no. He’s trying to understand what it’s like not to be just a white man coming from the Southland. Good luck to him, but I’d guess he’s set himself up for failure. I would argue that that is an impossible goal for anyone. And judging from the way he writes words, I think he might have a harder time than the average guy understanding anything at all.

Then the L.L. part comes on.

Why L.L., why would you do this? You used to be so great! You were the best!

And you have so much money and all these other things — make movies, and host award shows, and beat up intruders who break into your house. Why make records? It’s been so long since you’ve done anything but embarrass yourself on this front?

“I wasn’t there when Sherman’s March turned the South into firewood,” L.L. raps. “I want you to get paid, but be a slave I never could…”

And

“If you don’t judge my doo-rag/I won’t judge your red flag…”

And

“If you don’t judge my gold chains/I’ll forget the iron chains…”

And then

“The relation between the Mason-Dixon needs some fixin’.”

Yes it does. But this song will really, really not help fix anything. This kind of bullshit, feel-better, teachable-moment nonsense can only make the world worse. Never mind the highly questionable notion of equating a doo-rag with a confederate flag, or forgetting about America’s history of slavery ever under any circumstances. That kind of stupid, garbage rhyming, delivered in such breathy, lick-lipping, self-important tones… Jesus Christ! This might not just be the worst song to come out this past week; this might be the worst song to come out all year. This might be the very worst song ever recorded by anyone.

In that way, I guess, it is important?

Baseball Season is here, and if you are not very Sporty, you might be all like: “Baseball? Big deal, I don’t care about your stupid ‘America’s Pastime,’ it’s just for awful horrible stupid average people who want to Conform and be Average Americans with their Coors Light and ‘Two entrees and an appetizer for $20’ at Chilis, and their porky insulin-shock-at-any-moment kids and Wal-Mart — or maybe Target because it has a Starbucks now — and a minivan — or better yet a Dodge Magnum station wagon — and “relaxed fit” jeans and XXXL sleeveless “muscle” shirts from Costco and coupons for Gino’s Pizza Rolls and low-fat frozen fudge bars because those are healthier and ‘hey, maybe we should check out JC Penneys because it’s better now, they have Martha Stewart’ and wait, what were we talking about, what did you say? ‘Baseball?’ I don’t care about Baseball, I’ve heard about the awful things that happen in the stands at Baseball games with people who think they have the right to behave like animals because they bought a ticket to a game, don’t try and force your Mediocrity on me, go read a book.”

I enjoy Baseball, but I understand why somebody might say Baseball is boring, or dull, or not exciting, or tiresome, or seemingly endless, or boring, or: boring. I also understand that feeling about how there’s Pressure from Society, sorta forcing you to go along with “everybody” and participate in a thing designed for the Masses, and be Unexceptionally American or whatever. But I also say you should give it a try, just as like, not an adventure in Bordeom, but rather an experiment in Relaxation, and take in a Baseball game once Summer is in full effect, OK? It would help if you like beer.

You don’t even have to go to a place where they have Baseball games, in fact, you should take in a game on the radio or an Internet. Just listen to a Baseball game as described for radio. Again, do you like beer, because that’s a big part of it, relaxation-wise.

Beer is a way that people relax, and no offense if you are an Alcoholic, please do not have a beer, because that would be Bad for you, but you can totally participate in this activity with any other kind of refreshing beverage you favor.

I am saying if you are not an alcoholic, if you are somebody who has a beer or two and does not have it get in the way of the rest of your day or life, you should consider experiencing a Baseball game as described by a professional Baseball Describer using only words, spoken into a microphone, with some natural sound of the event audible in the background, as you sip an icy-cold beer on a hot summer’s day.

You could have a nice glass of iced tea if you don’t want a beer, or you could have a “Half and Half,” also known as an “Arnold Palmer,” which is half iced tea and half lemonade, and named after a famous Golf player, and plus, it’s funny to be recommending something connected to a Golfer for this exercise in Relaxation Through Baseball on account of how boring Golf is, no offense to any Golfers out there, but seriously, Golf is the only sport that has a bar built in to a lot of the golf courses, you know? They call it the “19th Hole,” and you go there after you play Golf to talk about how boring Golf is. Kidding, come on, you go to the “19th Hole” after a Golf game to get drunk. That “Arnold Palmer” drink? There’s a famous drinker/golfer named John Daly who used to put vodka in it. Anyway, I’m just playing about Golf being boring; as long as you bet on each hole, Golf is super exciting. At some Golf places you can drink on the field, they have people driving around serving stuff, it’s almost as easy to get loaded while you play Golf as it is to get bombed when you are Bowling. OK, nothing is as easy as getting fucked up while you are Bowling. There would be no non-professional Bowling without drinks of alcohol, except for maybe when they do kiddie birthday parties at bowling alleys and put bumpers in the gutters so no kids will roll a gutterball, but I’m pretty sure they serve hella beers during those parties to the grownups. But let’s get back to the game, OK?

Some sunny afternoon this summer, figure out a way to listen to a radio broadcast of a baseball game in the privacy of your own home or out in whatever Outdoor Element you can scare up. Don’t listen to the TV. A radio description of baseball is different from the one on TV, because the announcers on TV know you are looking at pictures, so they don’t have to really describe anything, whereas on the radio, the announcers need to tell you about the sky, the wind, what the players are wearing, and then, in way greater detail than on TV, they need to describe the activity on the Baseball diamond, the “action,” if you will. I know, “action,” but you also do not need to understand what’s going on, just listen or half-listen.

Anyway, it’s a hot afternoon, you got nothing going on until later, turn on the ball game, crack/pour/whatever a cold beverage, and then you could even look at the paper or read a book while the game is on, and I’m telling you, the voice of the announcer, and the ambient noise of the crowd at the stadium (occasionally punctuated by something actually happening on the field) will provide an airy, soothing wallpaper of sound, putting you in a bubble of mellow time as the game unwinds. Afternoons are great, but my favorite time to listen to a baseball game is right before bed.

Mr. Wrong can converse with you via many medias. Photo excerpted from Art Bromage.

Do you think when vandals paint giant penises on things they start off by thinking, “This is going to be the best giant penis anyone has yet painted,” or is it more about getting the job done — “Another day, another giant penis to paint” — and moving on? Either way, you have to appreciate commitment to the form.

“Americans Taking Advantage of Ability to Watch TV on Their Own Schedules”

Researchers have come up with a hilarious new way to keep Junior from getting larger: Just put your child’s meals on very little plates, so the child cannot figure out she is getting a few spoonfuls of blanched kale for dinner, again.

The medical journal Pediatrics just released an exciting new study that proves kids can’t tell the difference between plate sizes. Give them gigantic plates, like prop plates from movies about giants, and the youngster will eat enough for a week without noticing. Giving children small plates, like those used in popular Brooklyn restaurants, is an easy way to fake out the minds of our littlest ones.

“Researchers gave adult-sized and kid-sized plates to first graders at an elementary school in Philadelphia, and let them serve themselves lunch. Guess what happened?” Well we know what happened from the headline, but go ahead and tell us again: “The kids with bigger plates served themselves more — and ate more.”

A study of 41 kids proved to scientists that giving some of them very teeny little plates is a very successful method for keeping the children’s caloric intake down. The first graders were generally too dumb to realize their own plates were so tiny, and so they ate less than the happy children with human-sized dishes instead of doll plates. Experts say this doesn’t work so well on very smart kids, but smart kids are by definition in short supply.

Photo by Alan Bailey.

The Dictionary of American Regional English is on hard times, and is asking for your support.