Not long ago, as overly observant readers will know, I flunked out of my masters program in Gay Mixmastery. This was the track for which they sent me packing. Well, people said that Erykah Badu’s “Telephone” couldn’t be mixed with Lady Gaga’s “Telephone” with Blondie’s “Hanging on the Telephone.” The truth was, they were wrong, but then again, so was I. I would say “Enjoy!,” except that one cannot. Stream or download as you wish.

[wpaudio url=”http://tomscocca.com/Car%20Phone!.mp3″ text=”Car Phone! — The Awl Radio” dl=”http://tomscocca.com/Car%20Phone!.mp3″]

(MP3 direct download: The Awl Radio: ‘Car Phone!’, 11MB. And previously: The Awl’s Totally Gay Dance Weekend Party Radio.)

Last night Michigan’s Rima Fakih became the first Arab American to be crowned Miss USA — a position so significant in our country’s history that a few of her notable predecessors have included Dolley Madison, Harriet Tubman, Victoria Woodhull and Edna St. Vincent Millay. But is this Islamicist woman worthy of such an honor? Conservative pundit Daniel Pipes claims that Fakih is the beneficiary of pro-Muslim affirmative action, which is apparently rife in beauty pageants these days. Perhaps more scandalously, Fakih ONCE APPEARED IN A DETROIT MORNING SHOW’S STRIPPING CONTEST, where she won a prize without even stripping (probably because of that whole affirmative action thing). There has been no word yet from the organizers of the pageant — a deliberative body whose members are invested with life tenure after an appointment by the President of the United States and confirmation from the Senate — but we believe that there should be a thorough investigation of this entire incident. The integrity of the Miss USA position is far too important to be sullied by the dangerous precedent of its holder’s prior involvement with non-naked pole dancing in a room full of other women. After all, as Emma Lazarus (Miss USA 1869–1870) wrote in her epic The Newer Colossus (Ride Up On This Booty Remix), “C’mon girls, let’s go show the guys that we know/How to become number one in a hot body show.” Truer words, etc.

Have you experienced the horror that is the film Babies? Maybe you shouldn’t, writes Christine Smallwood: “Breasts are everywhere, hovering like an overwhelming weather pattern. A crisis erupts when one child won’t suck. The mother responds by grasping her nipple and dribbling milk all over the baby’s face. There is no escape, for the baby or for us; the camera is in extreme close-up, the entire screen filled by nipple, face, milk…. The film functions like a bizarre visual seminar in object relations theory. The mothers, alas, never emerge as whole persons.”

Would you pay $270,000 for a third-floor studio apartment in a new-ish Astoria condo building? What if it provided this experience every time an N or W train went by, thanks to its direct view of the elevated tracks that carry those trains: “Like the ominous slow-motion moment that precedes an explosion in an action movie, conversation ceased, everyone in the room froze and hairstyles rose and bowed in windy deference”? I would say “no,” especially if it meant giving money over to a broker who quipped “You feel like you’re in the city” after that hair-raising experience! Because, you know, the taxes and the buses and the 718 area code and all those other things weren’t enough? (On the bright side, she must have been relieved to have a distraction from the super-tiny kitchens!) [Pic via]

The National Review is angry with Justice Anthony Kennedy for not consulting Islamic law in today’s decision that the 8th Amendment forbids the lifetime imprisonment of juveniles who did not commit murder.

CBS has picked up the sitcom based on the “ha ha crusty old guys are hilarious” Twitter known as Shit My Dad Says. The show will need to have its name changed to avoid the wrath of the FCC, though, and it would appear that it’s now called… Shat My Dad Says. Because it stars William Shatner as the ever-quipping father! Do you see? No? Well, something tells me that not a lot of people will, and that this show will be the TV-show equivalent of Snakes On A Plane unless it somehow lines up a Priceline sponsorship to keep it afloat.

Presenting My Ex-Wife’s Wedding Dress, in which a man with a whole lot of issues with his ex and a hankering for a book deal uses the dress his former spouse married him in to do things like play jump rope, wash the dishes, strain pasta, and floss his teeth. (Not in that order, although he does do the flossing after using the thing as a gym towel. Ew.) Can’t wait for the answer blog, My Ex-Husband’s Sociopathic Nature And Kind Of Gross Attitudes Towards Personal Cleanliness, to launch!

by Hamilton Nolan

“You know who was the first guy to beat up Paulie Malignaggi? Me!” said an older acquaintance of mine at Gleasons Gym. “He came in here when he was 15 and they asked me to spar with him. And I get in and he starts belting me. This 15-year-old kid, belting me! So I,”-and here, he pantomimes crouching down and throwing huge body hooks-”bam, bam, and I cracked his rib. Yeah, I cracked his rib, Paulie Malignaggi.”

This anecdote is related simply to illustrate the fact that Paulie Malignaggi is the type of guy who inspires others to want to beat him up. He is boxing’s greatest Guido; he is The Situation, with a more offensive haircut.

Paulie Malignaggi is a Brooklyn Italian kid who rocks the loudest of loud fashion ensembles in and out of the ring, talks shit incessantly, and taunts opponents mercilessly. He dances in the ring, during fights. He wears shiny purple outfits, tassels, and cornrows, or sometimes spiky gelled hair with frosted blond tips, during professional boxing matches. He tells other fighters how much they suck, on Twitter. He is endlessly self-promoting. His nickname is “The Magic Man.” He is easy to loathe.

Saturday night, Paulie Malignaggi fought Amir “King” Khan in Madison Square Garden. Khan is one of boxing’s prime Golden Boys, a tall dark and handsome Islamic British Olympic medalist with a flawless pedigree, the world’s best trainer, and Manny Pacquiao for a sparring partner. In his last fight-which was, admittedly, set up more as a novel “Battle of the Religions” than as a balanced card-the opening bell had scarcely finished echoing before Khan knocked down Jewish fighter Dmitry Salita, who lasted a total of 76 seconds before being rendered unconscious, ungraciously.

During the months leading up to this match, Paulie Malignaggi talked so much shit. He talked shit to reporters. He talked shit on Twitter. He expertly denigrated Khan in order to sell tickets, despite the fact that most canny boxing observers could tell early on (right around the moment the contract for the fight was signed) that Malignaggi was a severe underdog. For one thing, Paulie Malignaggi is a terribly light puncher. His footwork is fabulous; his movement and defense and ability to dodge and dip and slide away from punches is, indeed, magical to watch. But his best punch is just a snappy left jab, and he hasn’t knocked anyone out in a hell of a long time. He also has a tendency to break his right hand early in fights, which does not help him out, power-wise. In short, Paulie was doomed from the start, not that you would know it by his demeanor, strutting around cockily and playing to the press from atop a massive pile of shit-talking.

Anyone who has ever watched Jersey Shore and felt the fundamental feeling of revulsion that the show is designed to induce should be intuitively able to grasp just how easy it is to hate Paulie Malignaggi. He is that guy. He brings in huge, loyal crowds of hair-gelled, tanned, muscled-up, tattooed guys from the usual places. If you are not one of them, it is hard to acquire a taste for their ways. Paulie was the night’s self-made antihero, and he could not have cared less. Just spell his fucking name right.

The undercards were less than thrilling. The HBO announcers did their stand-up intro. The BBC reporters jostled in the back row of the press section. An incredible number of Brits (what with the recession and the volcano and all) were on hand, waving “Khan’s Army” banners that sported dual British and Pakistani flags, which you just knew were bound to set off the Long Islanders, sooner or later. (The crowd fights broke out in the sixth round, FYI). The place exploded when Malignaggi made his entrance, blasting what sounded like a mix tape intro complete with a sample of Denzel in Training Day declaring, “King Kong ain’t got nothing on me!” We got to hear the dapper announcer Michael Buffer say the words “Brooklyn in the house,” as well as “in the blue corner, wearing leopard trunks…” This could only be a Paulie Malignaggi fight.

Amir Khan’s hands are fast. Supernaturally fast. He is, without exaggeration, one of the fastest punchers on the face of the earth. He fires so fast that your eye can’t pick up when he throws a punch. Instead, you’d just catch a frozen moment in time: Khan with both arms fully extended, an inch or so from Paulie’s chin, his white gloves seeming to dangle out there like a bungee jumper at the bottom of the fall, before snapping back in place. Khan’s still a young fighter-just 23-and sometimes he even overwhelms himself with his own speed, shooting punches out like the Thousand Hand Slap, his wrist seemingly so fast it gets ahead of his own knuckles.

Point is, he’s fucking fast. Which is how Amir Khan knocks everyone out: they’re on the mat before they know what hit them. Paulie Malignaggi is fast too. But not quite that fast. In the first round, though, Paulie succeeded, mostly, in dancing under and around most of Khan’s big shots. It was like watching two very quick capoeira dancers, who wanted to kill each other. Khan’s deadly speed was apparent though; the anticipation was in full effect for Paulie Malignaggi’s inevitable end, crumpled unconscious and not fucking talking, for once.

And then something sort of spectacular happened. Paulie Malignaggi began to earn my respect. As the rounds progressed, Paulie began to absorb more and more hard shots from Khan; but he never started running away. He kept his distance and stuck his jab and looked at Khan as if he was a man in danger, although he certainly was not. In the second round, nearly backed into the corner and ducking a big right hand, Paulie somehow found a moment to break out a fancy little dance, before skittering off to the side just ahead of another incoming missile. In the third, despite Khan’s total domination of the round, Paulie staged his own brief Light Brigade-style charge. In the fourth, another little momentary dance. In the fifth, Khan ripped a body shot into Paulie’s belly; Paulie grabbed on to Khan and sunk to the floor. But then he popped right up, complaining loudly to the ref that he had been pushed, and somehow managed to convince him not to rule it a knockdown.

In the seventh, Khan began popping his jab into Paulie’s face with sickening regularity-it was simply to fast and too close of a punch for Paulie, or anyone, really, to get out of the way of-and Malignaggi’s left eye began to swell shut. Nevertheless, he stuck out his tongue at Khan as the bell rang. Through the eighth and ninth Khan continued to mash Paulie’s face with sharp jabs, and by the tenth the big right hands and left hooks that Malignaggi had been able to avoid in the early part of the fight were landing, hard.

Paulie did not fall down. After the tenth round the fight doctor came to his corner to see about stopping the fight. And Paulie Malignaggi-the flamboyant, pompous, overconfident, shit talker-could be seen speaking to the doc very calmly, asking politely to please be allowed at least one more round. The doctor acquiesced. Malignaggi came out for the 11th round, still dipping and dodging as best he could, left eye closed, mouth bloody, and ate a series of jabs and couple of rights against the ropes before the referee stepped in and stopped the fight.

Paulie Malignaggi did not have the physical tools to win this fight. But he came out and fought like a champion. He gave it his all. He did not surrender to fear or to pain. He stared down a superior force and emerged bloodied but unbowed. He gave a performance of which anyone could be proud. And I felt that I had been ennobled by witnessing his bravery.

On the way out, I realized that most of Amir Khan’s fans were just the British versions of Paulie Malignaggi’s fans, anyhow. Never judge a douchebag by his accent.

Here are some options for a sluggish Monday afternoon: A robot in Japan conducts the world’s first “electronic wedding ceremony,” a dog in California can count to 10, and charity workers in Britain get a double banana surprise. That last one is probably not as exciting as you think it is, in that it is actually about bananas. Anyway, onward!

Could the oil slick in the Gulf of Mexico move to the Atlantic and migrate up the Eastern seaboard? Yes, says, uh, some guy who used to toss a lot of “message in bottle” bottles into the ocean. One time, 40 years ago, he threw a bottle into the Gulf and he got a letter back from some lady who lived on the coast. “It took only a few months for that bottle to travel all the way around the state of Florida,” says the guy. “The implications are chilling.” Indeed. Indeed they are.