Everything That Rises Must Pivot To Video

Image: Steve Snodgrass

Some suggest the repackaging and reposting of ads highlights the “pivot to video” mentality many publishers now demonstrate. The push to churn out video content to feed platforms and to attract potentially lucrative video advertising is increasingly viewed as a potential solution to an increasingly challenging business model problem.

Curious timing, this Wall Street Journal piece on publishers just packaging ads as videos (I dunno if you heard but the people want video, and by “the people” I mean “the advertisers”) and this Felix Salmon tweetstorm about video content that looks curiously like well-placed advertising.

Creepy folk art, Stephen Colbert's desk, and a James Joyce LP

Lot 1: Skeleton Sculpture

Courtesy of Case Antiques Auctions

It looks like something straight out of Beetlejuice — a mixed media and clay sculpture roughly the size of a hardcover book that depicts a skeleton in a suit emerging from, or half-sitting in, his coffin — and valued for auction at $400–500, it might be dismissed as a novelty of little notice. But digging just a little deeper turns up its fascinating origin. This spooky piece of folk art was crafted by Mississippi blues musician, gravedigger, and self-taught artist, James “Son” Thomas (1926–1993). Known in some circles for his figures of heads, skulls, and coffins, Thomas’s art has been displayed in various museums, though he remained overlooked in his lifetime. The New York Times took note of his work in 2015, calling it “wonderful and unappreciated,” and comparing him to Walker Evans.

This piece had been in the collection of the Arts Center of Cannon County, Tennessee, but they have curiously decided to ditch it, so Case Antiques Auctions & Appraisals in Knoxville will offer it for sale on August 5.

Every Sad Story Is A Jerking Off Story

A colleague of mine is of the belief that men won’t wear sunglasses because they’re afraid to look like they’re bothered by how bright it is outside. They don’t, she insists, want to admit that nature has power over even the most basic things they do. I find this theory both comical and insulting and yet as a man who does not himself wear sunglasses, whose reasons are wildly at odds with this extremely erroneous opinion, I am willing to accept the possibility that somewhere deep down I might be susceptible to that fear or something like it. It is difficult to rule out entirely because we are mysteries to ourselves, our whims and habits the results of hundreds of experiences we can neither acknowledge nor recall.

Why Do Good Things Happen to Bad People?

Image: Bernard Spragg. NZ

“Why are loud-mouth jerks like Donald Trump and ‘The Mooch’ successful, while more thoughtful people with actual souls have to struggle?” — Bewildered Bob

We’ve spent the past six months to a year in a spiral of think pieces. And the truth is there is no one answer why we currently have to see and think about Donald Trump on an almost daily basis. It has simplistically been summed up by explaining something about Michigan, Pennsylvania and Wisconsin. If only Hillary Clinton had campaigned there more. If only Bernie Sanders had been the Democratic nominee. If only 77,000 combined people in those states had just decided to vote another way. Maybe if dumb people had forgotten to vote. We’d already have 2 or 3 impeachment trials going on against President Hillary Clinton if she had won. Maybe we’re better off for not having to live through those?

But this discounts Donald Trump’s appeal. His blustery self-confidence blew him into the White House, despite almost everything else we know about him. On the outside of the future Trump Memorial they should carve into the marble “Fake It Til You Make It.” Whether he will ever truly “make it” or not is up in the air. He does not seem interested in the job of the American Presidency or its duties. Anyone who runs for our nation’s highest office is bargaining like Faust. Get it and you’ll spend your days “in power” coming to understand how limited that power can be. Don’t get it and you’ll spend your days eating Twinkies on the couch.

How To Say "Suck My Own Cock" In Italian

Image: Theo Curmudgeon

What’s funny is that when it comes to “I’m not trying to suck my own cock” the Italian doesn’t use cazzo. No, you see, as Costanza Rizzacasa d’Orsogna explained to me (she writes for Corriere della Sera, but I couldn’t find a frank translation of all this on their site), you could translate suck my own cock literally as succhiarmi il cazzo, but Italian has a better expression: fare il pompino, literally ‘do the little pump’, figuratively ‘give a blowjob’. And that’s what HuffPo went with: “Non mi interessa farmi i pompini da solo” — ‘I’m not interested in giving myself solo blowjobs’.

Personally I could do without the gleefully ornamental just-because-I-can fucks in the post itself, but that seems like a moot point on a blog dedicated to swears, but otherwise this post about how various news outlets translated or interpreted the Lizza-Scaramucci phone call is just wonderful. Should you ever find yourself (back at) the Blue Lagoon, here’s how to say “Reince is a fucking paranoid schizophrenic” in Icelandic:

“Reince er fjandans ofsóknarbrjálaður geðklofasjúklingur.”

You can read the whole thing here.

Global autofellation with the Mooch

Superpitcher, "Yves"

Here we go again.

Photo: Todd Crusham

Weren’t we just here? Wasn’t it moments ago that we were waking up to a new week, full of dread and barely able to drag ourselves to the starting line? Didn’t we just complain about how exhausted we were and wonder how much more we could take? I guess the good news is I can copy and paste this exact block of text over and over again until it finally all comes down, because we live in a world where it’s always like this now. Here’s some music. Enjoy.

Scenes From A Day

Liana Finck is still drawing

New York City, July 27, 2017

★★★ The new fresh air was like an extra weight holding the bedcovers down, suppressing wakefulness. Outdoors was tilting toward warmth and humidity but a rush of chilly wind found the open space at 72nd and Broadway and surged through it. The coffee shop staff was discussing where to get more ice. The clouds closed over and another gust came along 13th Street. Early afternoon had dimmed and stagnated. The air got stickier. By the time the later of the day camps had let out, the apartment air conditioner had to come on again.

Jared Kushner Plays the Lottery

Image: Johnn

Everyone at the White House is well rested because no one who works there stayed up to watch the Senate vote. No one cares if people have health insurance or not. JARED is thinking about whether today is the day he finally uses the bathroom at work, and IVANKA is slightly perturbed because someone on Twitter called her and her husband “White trash Camelot.” There’s a tray of Russ & Daughters MAGGIE HABERMAN sent the staff, as a thank you gift for making her a star. Only the people who used to be Democrats are touching any of it. ANTHONY “THE MOOCH” SCARAMUCCI is pooling together money to buy Powerball tickets for the office. THE MOOCH is somehow still White House Communications Director.

JARED [kind of standing up for himself]: I don’t know. I don’t really carry cash on me.

THE MOOCH [shouting]: You dumb fuck — what if there’s a run on the banks?

JARED [concentrating on something else so the urge to urinate disappears]: I don’t think I want to —

THE MOOCH [slathering an everything bagel with scallion cream cheese]: What’s wrong, Wimpy? You can’t have more money? [THE MOOCH taps JARED’s crotch.] Wimpy, can I call you that?

[JARED doesn’t react.]

THE MOOCH [skewering smoked salmon with a plastic fork]: Don’t answer that. [to EVERYONE] No more dumb questions, fucknuts. [to JARED] You already know we call you that behind your back. So why am I asking?

Forget To Remember

You would think that “Jeopardy” devotees would be familiar with the nature of forgetting. When the TV game show first aired in 1964, Lyndon Johnson was president; today the typical “Jeopardy” viewer is retirement age, a blue-haired grandpa who has a hard time recalling his AOL password, never mind the answer to: Who wrote The Bridge on The River Kwai?

But it turns out the key to remembering “Jeopardy” trivia might actually be a kind of strategic forgetting. Enter Roger Craig, a mild-mannered data scientist, who managed to dominate his turn on the game show by taking advantage of the data-driven science of memory, racking up the largest, one-day total in the history of the game.

This statistical rags-to-riches narrative has become a common trope: A data guru mixes CSV files with a dash of Bayesian models with powerful results. Baseball has Billy Beane, the savvy, stats-hungry baseball manager made famous in MoneyBall. Politics has Nate Silver, the t-test guru behind FiveThirtyEight. Now there’s Roger Craig the guy who brought data analytics to “Jeopardy.”