This article by Dahlia Lithwick on Charles Dean Hood-the Texas death row inmate whose trial judge and prosecutor were having a secret affair-is as good as anything she’s ever written, which is saying a lot.

Pop provocateur M.I.A. has been throwing elbows lately, so it probably isn’t too surprising that her new single “Born Free” (warning: nausea-inducing animated GIF at link) is a pretty aggressive affair once it gets going, with her reverbed-out proclamations cut and pasted over a loop nicked from Suicide’s “Ghost Rider.” The overall vibe is very similar to the blown-out giddiness put forth by the awesome New York duo Sleigh Bells, whom M.I.A. has been speaking very highly of when she hasn’t been bitching over GaGa’s 1-D Grace Jones-biting. (The Sleigh Bells love, by the way, is not undeserved, if only for the rapturous “AB Machines.”)

Last Night: The London Review of Books Party

Last evening, Marisa Meltzer and Doree Shafrir went to the 30th anniversary celebration of the London Review of Books.

Marisa: Where do we even begin?

Doree: I think it needs to be said that somewhere there is a party planner who might be losing his/her job.

Marisa: Oh really? I was going to start with the collective loss of our Patrick McMullan v-cards, but go on.

Doree: Well. They scheduled it on the night of the National Magazine Awards, which meant that every big deal editor in town wasn’t going to come-as well as most of the media reporters.

Marisa: There was also an US Weekly event! So the cast of Jersey Shore was also prob busy.

Doree: Yes! Well and more to the point for their audience, there was also a Granta event.

Marisa: Actually I feel like that was a theme: insouciance.

Doree: Except that they then held the party in like the biggest party space downtown, with the exception perhaps of Cipriani Wall Street. It felt huge and empty.

Marisa: I love that you know that.

Doree: Even though there were probably 200 people there. They should have had it at, like, Housing Works.

Marisa: On the plus side, it was really easy to score an hors d’oeuvre and a champagne refill.

Doree: That is true. It was not hard at all to get to the bar.

Marisa: Thessaly and I were bodying those croquettes.

Doree: Oh, the serrano ham ones. Yeah one of the servers was trying to get you guys to take extras. There were TOO MANY hors d’oeuvres!

Marisa: I thought those prawns were awkwardly large. Like, you could not flirt and eat those.

Doree: They were.

Marisa: But then… with whom does one flirt at the LRB party? I mean, real talk.

Doree: There was that guy who just wanted to talk about the Jenny Diski essay on having crabs.

Marisa: I guess that’s where the media reporters and ASME people could have come in handy?

Doree: Yes.

Marisa: You mean “pubic lice.” I had to be all, “is that the same thing as crabs?” Since there were not media reporters there, I had to ask the hard questions

Doree: Let’s peruse that essay.

Marisa: That guy was also wearing a mint green corduroy blazer, which was kind of a hot look for an LRB party.

Doree: “The pubic lice multiplied to a plethora and became imaginatively licensed to inhabit my entire body.”

Marisa: How did they come about? Thrift store underwear? I went through a scandalous phase in high school where I bought thrift store lingerie all the time and my mother always told me I was going to get crabs. I never did, FYI.

Doree: No, she got them from a slutty boyfriend. But. Spoiler alert?

Marisa: I’m ready.

Doree: It turns out she actually has “delusory parasitosis.” Meaning: most of the time she thought she had lice she was actually just crazy.

Marisa: That’s a THING?

Doree: Yup. It sounds intense and horrible.

Marisa: Like hysterical blindness? She had hysterical crabs?

Doree: “People can be deluded about all manner of things, but the belief that insects have invaded the body and cannot be seen or effectively dealt with suggests a particular horror of something other — a living, deliberate other — far too close to our known selves.”

Marisa: If I had hysterical crabs, I would totally write an essay about it, too. But my essay would prob be in somewhere way more lowbrow than the LRB. I mean, let’s be honest. So kudos to her.

Doree: TMZ?

Doree: If we’re sticking with the three letter acronyms.

Marisa: Are there any other three letter acronym publications? That might be my only choice.

Doree: Just TV stations. NBC, CBS, ABC, etc. ETC!

Marisa: GMA. I would do a first-person piece for GMA.

Doree: SNL.

Marisa: LOL.

Doree: OK so ANYWAY. I also had a conversation with someone from the New Yorker who had also received an email that morning asking if she wanted to bring any additional guests. She added 4 people to the list.

Marisa: Emo! A friend told me this morning that he had rsvp’d but had just gotten back into town and decided not to go. That isn’t very revelatory. But perhaps indicative.
Like, no one was all, “must-attend.”

Doree: I think it was poorly scheduled. If it had been on Monday night it would have been packed. Though they wouldn’t have been able to get any of their editors over here, so it would’ve been a wash.

Marisa: Oh right, the volcano. I keep forgetting about the volcano.

Doree: Yeah.

Marisa: What did we think of the fashion? People looked pretty…publishing. I think I had on the sluttiest tights, so that’s a win.

Doree: Those tights are a revelation.

Marisa: Paris!

Doree: Land of revelatory tights.

Marisa: Come with me to Paris and we can buy slutty tights. We can pitch an essay about the experience to the LRB!

Doree: That’s a great idea.

Marisa: But it will end up running somewhere more lowbrow.

Doree: So going along with my theory that it was empty but not really (party planning 101: always get a space that’s slightly too small), there were actually some interesting people there!

Marisa: I am fascinated by the beautiful woman in the sari. She is probably really important and I’ve spent too much time thinking about Courtney Love to know who she is: Nermeen Shaikh: “Nermeen Shaikh studied politics at Cambridge University in England and Queen’s University in Canada. She has worked at the Sustainable Development Policy Institute in Islamabad and the International Institute for Environment and Development in London. She is on the editorial board of the journal Development (based in Rome) and has recently published The Present as History: Critical Perspectives on Global Power (Columbia UP, 2007). She lives in New York City.”

Doree: Academic.

Marisa: So here’s my question. Are we kind of losers for having gone to the party when there were maybe more important parties, or was it then cool to go to this party? PS I am in junior high, obvs.

Doree: I had fun. Which party would you have wanted to go to? The national magazine awards are a snooze.

Marisa: I can’t even be bothered to think about the Granta party. Like, I’m bored before i even think about it.

Doree: I was told that the Granta party was even more sparsely attended. More sparsely?

Marisa: Sure.

Doree: Even less well attended? More sparsely or less well. Neither of those sounds good.

Marisa: Sparslier?

Doree: Sure. I think there was a party overdose last night. There must be a German word for that.

Marisa: It’s spring in New York, there’s a lot going on. I’m sorry that sounded really Candace Bushnell for a sec.

Doree: Whose April newsletter I received yesterday. She has made a “Carrie Diaries” mix! Of music that Carrie would have listened to on her walkman. German word: uberfestenmassig.

Marisa: That’s the same newsletter that made us decide that I should have one and really ostentatiously drop names in all caps. ‘I was at the LRB party the other night with DOREE SHAFRIR, a writer who is also one of my best friends and was wearing RACHEL COMEY boots.”

Doree: I pretended that wasn’t happening. You may have noticed.

Marisa: There was some blind-item worthy gossip but maybe we should keep it to ourselves. Maybe it will make people want to invite us to their parties.

Doree: I think there are a couple things we can discuss. Like: WHICH ubiquitous publishing partygoer was absent last night because of a terrible case of shingles?

Marisa: What are shingles? I realize I don’t really know.

Doree: They’re like adult chicken pox. It’s not an STD, if that was your concern.

Marisa: I get it confused with rickets. I don’t know what rickets are, either! Is that the disease you get from not enough sunlight?

Doree: Maybe? And scurvy you get from not eating enough vegetables.

Marisa: Right, pirates and stuff.

Doree: Ahoy.

When a Juggalo mates with a furry, the resulting offspring is apparently referred to as a “Juggafur.” I would have chosen “Furgalo” myself-it sounds more elegant, like an expensive pair of shoes made by a renowned craftsman in a remote village in the foothills of Tuscany-but I guess classy might not be the aspiration here. [Via]

As someone who has found the New York Yankee career of Alex “A-Rod” Rodriguez both fascinating and baffling, I watched with interest the flare-up yesterday during which Rodriguez, trying to expedite his trip back to first base from third after a foul ball, cut across the diamond instead of retracing his steps across the basepath. His path took him across the pitchers’ mound, which greatly upset A’s pitcher Dallas Braden. (“He should just maybe watch his captain a little more often,” Braden said afterward, in the umpteenth instance of someone setting up a “Goofus & Gallant” situation between Rodriguez and Yankee-for-life Derek Jeter. Wait, how has that not become a blog concept yet? I call dibs!) Now, to hope that a lightly fictionalized version of the incident shows up on the forthcoming, Mexico-set season of Eastbound & Down.

Too many trout at Yellowstone are being eaten by pelicans, so Idaho wildlife managers are introducing badgers and skunks to eat the pelicans. Department of Fish and Game officers are expected to spend 2011 figuring out what eats badgers and skunks.

I am still convinced that Britain’s adoption of American-style leadership debates is destroying whatever good is left to that nation of unwashed miscreants-and may even be responsible for the worrying downward spiral in successful knife crime completions-but I watched the whole thing yesterday and came away with several revelations, not the least of which is that if I had to live on an island where I were subject to Gordon Brown’s dour Scottish baritone on a regular basis I would be glassing people until the whole country ran out of stemware.

Anyway, the second debate is generally considered to have been a draw, or a slight victory by Nick Clegg, leader of Britain’s third party, whose growing popularity has caused so much fear in Conservative ranks that they might be shut out of government that they have resorted to begging their allies in the press (which is pretty much all of the major papers, save one or two) to rubbish him. (A particularly excellent example can be found here, which amply demonstrates the xenophobia and insularity for which-apart from poor hygiene and stabbiness-the English people are best known.) Clegg seemed fine last night, if a little squishy at certain moments (one pined for his predecessor Charlie Kennedy, who would have probably shown up drunk-if at all-and lightened the proceedings). Still, between Conservative Leader David Cameron’s posh oleaginousness and the Prime Minister’s glassing-inducing drone, Clegg struck me as perhaps the best choice out of the three to run the country, particularly given his stance that Britain should scrap its nuclear program and replace it with an arsenal of giant knives. Pandering? Sure. But it makes a certain amount of sense.

by Lindsay Robertson

What are the Christians up to these days? Rapping! Or, well, “rapping.” Still. But in a weird new TV-show-referencing way. This video comes courtesy of an honest-to-goodness Mom email forward: It’s a middle-aged lady, Tamara Lowe, doing her trademark “rap,” which is about cramming as many pop culture proper nouns into one singsongy poem as possible. (And God, and the Bible.)

The old guy’s “ha. ha. ha. ha.” laugh at the end is so appropriate.

If you enter “Tamara Lowe” into YouTube, you’ll find a bunch of videos of Tamara performing this same exact singsongy poem with approximated rap roots and gesticulations at motivational seminars and on shows like The 700 Club, all from the past six months or so (the above video has over 600,000 views). Many of the YouTube commenters are critical, either because they think rap is inherently satanic or they think Mrs. Lowe is too rich and famous to be delivering her message. (Cough: the bracelet!) Lowe doesn’t seem to have any other raps, just this one, and it’s amusing to imagine her practicing it for weeks in front of her mirror at home. (“Not now, Jonah, Mommy is rapping! Go watch your Veggie Tales!”)

Tamara Lowe and her husband Peter Lowe run a series of motivational seminars called “Get Motivated!” whose keynote speakers have included George W. Bush (his much-ballyhood post-Presidential speaking debut last fall was at a “Get Motivated!” seminar), Bill Clinton, Colin Powell, and Goldie Hawn (Yes, Goldie Hawn.) Wikipedia says of Lowe:

She describes her ascent from drug addict and dealer with an 8th grade education to a person who has met 6 U.S. presidents and has earned a Masters degree.

She’s probably met 6 U.S. presidents because her business pays them outrageous speaking fees, but no matter. Lowe describes her testimony as going “from LSD to PhD!” But we shouldn’t make fun of her too much, actually, because she sort of disses Fox News in her rap.

This is the introductory video that plays before every “Get Motivated” seminar. It’s about motivation (and the dictionary definition, of course), and how “motivation was the drive behind” many great historical moments. Well, no shit, motivation is the drive behind all actions. That’s why it’s called “motivation.” It’s synonymous with “drive.” So the video is very vague, but you have to hand it to them for diversity. And for trying to get away with something in supreme last-minute fourth-grade report style.

Anyway, that’s what the Christians are up to right now.

Previously: Old Christian Videos: Amy Grant’s ‘Lead Me On’

Lindsay Robertson writes about pop culture and weird videos for places like Vulture and Jezebel, and about celebrity hair for Yahoo!.

It’s always a difficult moment for those of us who despise the poor tax that is the lottery when someone really poor wins a giant ass truck full of money! Christopher Shaw had $28.96 in his bank, he said, when he spent five dollars on a lottery ticket. So you know: dude, when you have THREE/FIVE KIDS (three of his own, but then two of his girlfriend’s), you do not spend 1/6th of your LIFE SAVINGS on LOTTERY TICKETS. Except, I guess, when you do, and are rewarded with $258 million. Please don’t all go out and buy a lottery ticket all at once right now.

Horror Chick: Do Not See ‘The Human Centipede’ Unless You Are a Sick, Sick Puppy, And Even Then Reconsider

It’s time to add a new type of bad movie to the ever-growing list: The aggressively bad movie. There’s no ironic badness or nudge-nudge wink-ery here-it’s more like “screw you, you were sucker enough to see this movie and now we will do our best to make bile shoot straight up your esophagus and launch out your nostrils” bad. Our prime example: The Human Centipede (in theaters-or maybe just one theater, IFC). “Wait,” you say, “isn’t that the ‘ass-to-mouth’ movie?” Yes. Yes it is. In every literal and figurative sense.

Creating the deliberate gross-out is a key component of horror-using cinema to evoke that sick twisting in your stomach when you’re confronted by something so nasty you instinctively cover your eyes. Much as I oh-so-subtly loathe him, Eli Roth can do a gross-out with the best of them-take the Achilles heel scene in Hostel. An effective gore scene isn’t just a matter of presenting all the necessary factors in the right order. It takes skill, and nuance, and purpose. Putting all the ingredients of a meatloaf on a countertop does not a dinner make, and simply taking the most fucked up concept anyone can think of and plunking it into a movie does not equal good horror. It’s more like eating a pound of raw ground beef slathered in ketchup.

Which brings us to The Human Centipede, AKA “That movie that shows you ass to mouth! Yup, we said ASS TO MOUTH! Did you get that?! You know what we mean, right?? Don’t you want to SEE it now? Guys??” As expected, the plot is merely a vehicle for the rampant ass-to-mouthery: A psychotic German (redundant?) surgeon wants to sew three humans together to realize some moronic vision he’s had since childhood or whatever. So he does. And it’s fucking disgusting.

Here’s a look for yourself (kudos to the folks at IFC for managing to cut this fetid shitpile into some semblance of a decent trailer):

If you want more detailed clips, they’re on Youtube, but I have an obligation to any God that will still have me not to post them here.

Look, I’m not saying that good horror isn’t often built on a repulsive concept. That’s its job: To confront us with horrific things, make us contemplate the unthinkable, and thereby lead us (in my view, anyway) to a greater truth-that life is brutally random and often too short, so we should enjoy each moment to the fullest blah blah blah. I make light of it, but it’s a point that never loses its power or authenticity-which is why horror movies continue to have impact.

But garbage like this is not chasing anything remotely true or meaningful. There’s no higher purpose-or even just cheap entertainment from a good gory thrill. This isn’t fun in any sense of the word. Nor is it well acted (the villain is a shite combo of Dr. Caligari and Sean Penn stuck in a tea party rally), or well written, or even well conceived-let’s not even touch the medical impossibility of keeping three human beings alive after being sewn together, when two of them have no way of ingesting real food or water. The writers try to feed us some BS line about the two American girls being a “tissue match”-and then somehow both of them also “match” with a random Japanese dude? Please. Stop treating your audience like morons. Granted, this is an ASS TO MOUTH movie, so maybe I ask too much.

In fact, I’d go so far as to say this movie isn’t even horror. Watching churlish teens get chased down and slaughtered by a madman with a mission-that’s horror. Watching a clownish German yell “Feed her!” as a Japanese guy shits in a girl’s mouth-that’s just fetish porn. All I could do besides fight the nausea (and yes, I can say this is the first horror movie I’ve ever seen that brought on nausea-and not minor nausea, but “Oh shit I better know where the nearest bathroom is” nausea) was feel sorry for the actors who signed on to this literal shitshow. This kind of movie is worse than a casting couch. Worse than hardcore porn, even. At least in porn you retain some modicum of dignity. Not much-but more than you get crawling on your hands and knees for 45 minutes with your face grafted to a Japanese dude’s anus and your butt surgically joined to your best friend’s face.

Not too surprisingly, I’ve gotten into a few fights with (sick, twisted) folks who actually liked this movie. “It’s unforgettable!” they argue. “It stays in your memory forever!” Yes, and so does that field hockey game where my ACL was snapped like a twig by some Sidwell chick with a left tackle build. These two memories can now live side-by-side, along with my uncle’s death and the time a right-wing blogger told me to partial-birth abort myself.

So for the record: this movie is a pulsating globule of sleaze, and if you liked it then please never sit near me on a bus or subway car. And if you do, know that I carry pepper spray and nunchucks.

Melissa Lafsky is dead serious. You’d better stay the hell away.