Flo Jo

Bitch I'm big like bunnies' family trees
From the Dirty like birthmarks on Drew Brees
Call me Dolla or call me Peahz
But before you touch it, please say please

Did you see the Super Bowl Halfime show???

Michael Jackson. Stevie Wonder. The Rolling Stones. Prince. Bruce Springsteen. The Black Eyed Peas.

Find the black sheep. Oh, there it is.

The NFL let America down when it chose the Black Eyed Peas to headline the halftime show at Super Bowl XLV. After all, the Super Bowl is our nation’s moment to shine.

Europe is done thanking us for the Marshall Plan. We haven’t made a sexy car since the ‘70s. And as much as our fearless leader tries to galvanize his people, we are not on the verge of another Sputnik. But what we can do as Americans is put on a show; or at least we used to know what that took.

The Super Bowl, from its name down to the millions of dollars spent on advertising, is the ultimate flexing of American muscle. That is exactly why they trot out Michael and Stevie. Even Mick and Keith managed to emerge from the haze of a champagne-drenched suite in the Bellagio to make it up to Detroit for Super Bowl XL.

How could Roger Goodell and his cronies bobble the snap on this one? Everything was going so perfectly. In 2010 the NFL was filled with intriguing stories, which led to its highest ever TV ratings for a season. The playoffs were a commissioner’s dream. Aaron “Friendly as Mr. Rogers” Rogers and his hobbled Pack caught fire, adding a 21^st century chapter to the lore of the Green-and-Gold.

It felt like we were living in Goodell’s fantasy world. His golden knight, Rodgers, took down yesterday’s crucified star, Michael Vick. Then he braved the cold and silenced the surly Jay Cutler. Next up was the Super Bowl, and everyone outside of Western Pennsylvania hoped that Rodgers had one more in the chamber to slay the poster boy for everything wrong with the league, Big Bad Ben Roethlisberger.

Finally, through all of these triumphs of Good over Evil in the NFL, Rodgers has shaken the graying, Louisiana monkey from his back. That Super Bowl MVP Award ESPN can finally drop the notion that Rodgers is motivated by residual hatred for Brett Favre.

The NFL could not have drawn it up any better. Ex-cons and sexters alike felt the wrath of Rodgers’ poise and pinpoint passing. It seemed that the stage was set perfectly for the Super Bowl.

Then, inexplicably, the Black Eyed Peas were allowed to have their way with the halftime show. On a stage in the middle of the modern cathedral of sport that Jerry Jones built, Will.i.am, Fergie and co. butchered their performance and 111 million Americans cringed in unison.

Allow me to be clear. The Black Eyed Peas never had a chance. The fault here lies entirely with the people who selected them as the lead performer. Even if the mics had been working, even if Fergie hadn’t left her lozenges in Los Angeles and even if a number of the stage lights had not gone out, the show would have been a disaster.

The Black Eyed Peas burst onto the scene in a big way with the release of Elephunk, their first platinum album in 2003. During a time when the United States needed feel good music, they gave it to us. They gave it to us hard. Their music was like a combination of a “Fight World Hunger” commercial and Kumbaya set to the furious pace of a Jazzercise class. Even with their best performance last Sunday, they could never hold a candle to “Born to Run” or “Billie Jean” at midfield.

Maybe the planners of the halftime show knew they had to book someone cheesy when they saw the Packers making their Sherman-esque march through the postseason. That would mean that they were sacrificing a great show for a little irony. That sure doesn’t sound very American. Maybe the impending NFL lockout had Goodell so busy that he couldn’t manage to book a real performer.

Yes, I know they did have a classic face on the stage. Slash of Guns ‘n Roses made an appearance, complete with theatrical makeup and top hat. They barely let him play guitar, however, and he was forced to endure Fergie’s rendition of “Sweet Child O’ Mine”, marking the real low point of the night. The Peas then hit us with about five of their catchiest songs. I’ll blame that toe-tapping on restless leg syndrome.

There were only two saving graces. The absurd light-up costumes worn by the accompanying dancers and the Black Eyed Peas themselves made Apl.de.ap and Taboo looked like extras from The Matrix. The only moment that really absolved the whole disaster for me was Usher gracing us with some of his silky dance moves. Other than that, the halftime show gave the Super Bowl a big black eye.

Orange ya glad I didn't say banana?

something that is fucked up:

Rich people who buy shitty toilet paper (npi*). Are you KIDDING me? That's the least appreciated part of your body, dealing with shit, getting shit on and shitting itself. Hook it up for Christ's sake. If you take away that 5th Audi, you can start applying those funds to important things. Like fluffy paper to wipe your ass with.


I don't understand you, porn industry:

what is the appeal of a video entitled "handjob in car"? does the fact that this is happening in a motor vehicle somehow make a handjob enjoyable to watch? Maybe the acoustics are great in there. Who knows. Shit, no, you know what, they needed that particular hue of Miata Blue. And she is a retired hand model: just looked beautiful on that background. And if you recognized that brushed stainless wristlet, I'm not surprised because that video was financed by J.C. Penney. Great product placement.


There should be more subjects for this rant, but I don't have the storyweaving abilities of Bill Simmons. Speaking of which, fuck you Sports Guy. Simmons has the best job ever. And he shoves it in my face. It wasn't enough to just shower me with his wry wit, he also has to brag about the inanity of his columns. Which I love, don't get me wrong. He is just the most masturbatory writer of all time. It's great. In his "mailbag" column he posted an email that berated him for his absurd attention to detail of a number of reality shows that he delves into in his sports column. It must be satisfying to know that the guy reads his column enough to know how he breaks down Survivor, even if every word is painful. Bill Simmons, you are a man without a master. I envy your liberty.


*No Pun Intended

Dear Natalie

This is a poem in the style of ancient Hebrew erotic poetry, dedicated to Natalie Portman's sensual and evocative performance in the film Black Swan.

In white you were beautiful,

Were slender, tender and fragile

You floated on gusts of your own grace

You moved with girlish gentleness

But in black you struck like thunderclaps

The force of your twirls and thrusts could deafen.

Your face in striking shadow, terrifying beauty

Your lips a lustful sneer that draws me in and in

Your eyes are black magnets; I cannot escape you.

-Kadetrix Bolingbroke Martini

untitled

Storm is coming

Clouds hang low, city like a cave,
Gray and red-orange overcome blue,
Restless leaves on arching trees

Storm is coming

Hear the crickets, hear the sounds
Thunderclap! I'm living now,
Flashing light, I'm living in these clouds

Storm is coming

Sky blackens to the east, sideways rain,
There's rare power up above

Storm is coming,

Now trunks are screaming, buildings too,
Engulfed in furious, liquid skies

Storm is coming

Gale is whipping, puddles become ponds

Storm is coming

We see how small we really are now

Storm is coming
Storm is coming

A Dash of Wrath

I am demented, lamented, resented. I rise up and fill the air with my voice but I do not have to scream. My toes twirl wildly, each one splaying out from its fellows as if stabbing the night. I rip layer after layer of thick white linen cloth from my body, but there is so much that it is hard to find my own skin. I rip and I claw and the shreds fall like an autumn hijacked by winter. For every torn layer, new folds of constricting textiles materialize and cling to my body. They encompass me. They are meant to be comforting, but I resent the comfort they intend. Because they don’t really comfort at all. They conceal and they limit and they euphemize. I am consumed by the frustration of such a thing. These imposing white waves are spun in a loving light, but I know that they are only meant to muffle. My frustration turns to ire and fire rushes from my spleen and out of my mouth to lick the linen with blackening venom so potent that I burn my own skin. My spine tenses with the pain, but the cool, swirling winds make nerve endings calm.

I seek new threads as I roam the night air. I plunge into a black thundercloud, pulling its edges tight against my straining tendons and darning it with knowing fingers to accommodate my immensity. This feels right. The dark moisture is symbolic of my power, ready to gush forth at a moment’s notice. The immutable nature of water lends itself to me and clothes me in a second skin. That burst of fire was only temporary. Fire I could produce, but it is inconsistent. Water is like a Hendrix riff and a deep kiss: it produces something in me. Its strange dichotomy of permanence and fluidity appeals to me. I ride away with my cloak of icevaporwater to impose my will on the imposable.

>>>excerpt from the Autobiography of Radric Brazoban

What is that? The odd, maybe twisted pleasure of leaving people behind

There you are, on that boat. There they stand, on the dock. They stand there on the planks and nails, and the beams that bear their weight sink deep into the unmoving earth.

They stand on the dock. They are at the edge of the water. They can only turn. They can only go back. As they return back to their lives, they can’t fathom the dock; they don’t even try. They must return to the roundness, to the wholeness of the land. The concept of the frontier is too large, too unpackageable to even be addressed. The frontier doesn’t even have an address. It is beyond. Beyond what? That is the use of the people on the dock. They define the frontier. The point where they collectively stop, that is the frontier. Because some people stop on the dock, the boundary exists. That dock at the edge of the cold, dark water becomes so big. The big, scary frontier that repels them back toward the wholeness of their lives.

So why did they come? Was it to squeeze your hand or kiss your mouth with convincing passion? No, they came to see if you would really get on the boat. That Martian vessel departing the wholeness and the roundness. To where? Wrong preposition! It doesn’t matter to where. The boat is an uncatchable beam of light, tangenting off of the roundwhole. It is bouncing, flying, fleeing mothers and moorings. The shadow it casts doesn’t even touch the dock. The tethers fall away and the "bon voyages" ebb as thunderous waters make way for brave tangent.

But what of you? I haven’t forgotten. You can forget forgetting. Forgetting is what happens when you try to remember. You are past all that. You have put down your cup of Kool-aid. It wasn’t too bad: it was pleasant and safe and even tasted pretty good. Too syrupy-sweet though. It is time for a hearty swig of cold, briny seawater. Now that is a substance of clarity. It stings going down and it is complicated. It is liberating and revolting. Saltwater requires sharp focus; Kool-aid requires quiet concession. Kool-aid you left behind. You’re drinking seawater now. And after the first, hesitant cupful, you start gulping it down. There’s no label indicating its safety, but its salty sting doesn’t make you seize or vomit, no limbs fall off and your pores don’t leak essential fluids. Instead, the world flows into you. You are filled with its thereness. It shakes you and makes your eyes well up. The scrutinizing wind bites chunks out of who you were. It whips you like a lash, then fills your lungs – Straboccante! – with the food for which they yearn.

You crossed the frontier when you stepped foot on that boat. And however cold and brackish and biting the beyond is, it welcomes you.

Now go to it.