Sleaze Culture

The Antioch Review first said those immortal words now bouncing off the walls of every gin mill, cocktail lounge, boardroom and living room in the country if not the world: print is dead.  It turns out those Midwestern hippies had a point.

The number of Americans who read a print newspaper daily has dropped 18% in the past decade to 23%.  Even those who got their news from television dropped 13% to 55%.  The growing segment for news and information is, not shockingly, the Internet; growing 15% in the past decade.

Of course, when a segment of the market grows, so does competition for the consumers trafficking said segment of the market.  Indeed, websites, blogs and news carriers are always looking for underserved communities in an attempt to gain their dollars.

However, no one has really figured out how to make a buck from ad sales in traditional newspapers and magazines on the Internet.  Even a stalwart such as TIME Magazine (through its parent company TIME Inc.) had to cut 500 of its 8,000 worldwide staff due to declining ad sales.

Just what are the old graying Dreadnaughts of the 20^th Century supposed to do?  Perhaps TIME Magazine has found a way to pull in some of these dollars from underserved communities.

Here is the blurb found underneath the Google link to the TIME Magazine link to a story on the current IRS scandal:

(MORE: The Taxman Cometh: New IRS Scandal Echoes a Long … all got a free pass from the zionist (Steve Miller, jewish) conrtolled IRS.

When in doubt, appeal to the anti-Semitic community.  After all, no one has ever lost money promulgating hating the Jews.

Ironically enough, I found this headline shortly after I stopped laughing at TIME grasping for straws:

State Dept. reports rise in ant-Semitism, special envoy named.

Assholes Anonymous

What a news Monday this has turned out to be.  First we have the IRS scandal then word the Justice Department got caught illegally taking personal calls from Associated Press reporters.  The screaming over a Benghazi cover-up is as loud as ever.  And finally, Dr. Joyce Brothers died at the age of 85.

With all of these stories coming over the wire, this bit about a Saudi Arabian coming over on a Tourist visa with a pressure cooker got lost.  I found it on the front page of the Detroit News website, underneath a sign warning all to beware of the pissed off Chihuahua.

(From the Detroit News)

Federal agents have arrested a Saudi Arabian traveler who arrived at Detroit Metropolitan Airport with a pressure cooker, a key component used in the Boston Marathon bombings last month.

Hussain Al Khawahir appeared for a brief hearing at 1 p.m. in federal court on charges he allegedly used an altered passport and lied to a U.S. Customs and Border Protection Agent about the pressure cooker.

It was unclear Monday whether his arrest is terrorism related or a misunderstanding. But the prosecutor handling the case is Assistant U.S. Attorney Jonathan Tukel, who prosecuted the terror case against underwear bomber Umar Farouk Abdulmutallab.

“I am in the dark, too,” said Rita Chastang, his court-appointed lawyerU.S. Attorney Barbara McQuade declined comment on the particulars of the case or whether there are any links to terrorism.

“We never want to jump to conclusions and read more into a situation than is there, but we want to make sure all cases are fully investigated to protect the public,” McQuade said.

The slight-built, goateed Al Khawahir, 33, was dressed in a green Wayne County Jail uniform Monday and wearing ankle chains.

Flanked by an Arabic translator, he said nothing as Tukel asked to reschedule a detention hearing to 1 p.m. Tuesday.

That’s when a federal magistrate judge will decide whether Al Khawahir will be released on bond.

Al Khawahir arrived at the airport Saturday from Saudi Arabia, via Amsterdam, according to a criminal complaint filed Monday in federal court.

Al Khawahir was traveling with a B1/B2 visa, which lets him travel to the U.S. temporarily for business or tourism.

He told agents he was visiting his nephew, who attends the University of Toledo. During baggage inspection, officers noticed a page missing from Al Khawahir’s passport.

Al Khawahir told officers he did not know how the page was removed from the passport.

During the baggage exam, officers found a pressure cooker.

Al Khawahir said he brought the pressure cooker for his nephew because the devices are not sold in the United States, according to the complaint.

Later, he changed his story and admitted that his nephew had purchased a pressure cooker in the U.S. but it was cheap and broken…

Quick note to this latest alleged al-Qaeda want to be: once you use a regular item for murder and mayhem the police change up so you have to change up.  Please make a note so you don’t give all the respectable terrorists out there a bad name.

All of this reminds me of an old Henny Youngman joke:

Did you here the one about the latest al-Qaeda terrorist?  He was tasked with blowing up a car and burned his mouth on the tailpipe.

Schmucks.

Where I come from, we call this Opus One.

How Drunk Do You Have To Be To Get The Joke

A doctor vacationing on the Riviera met an old lawyer friend and asked him what he was doing there.

The lawyer replied, “Remember that lousy real estate I bought? Well, it caught fire, so here I am with the fire insurance proceeds. What are you doing here?”

The doctor replied, “Remember that lousy real estate I had in Mississippi? Well, the river overflowed, and here I am with the flood insurance proceeds.”

The lawyer looked puzzled. “Gee,” he asked, “how did you start the flood?”

(Hat Tip: Carpropertyfinder.com)

The First Essential Scary Truth

Once again a song sticks in my head…

This morning I found myself listening to the Golden Palominos “Dying From the Inside Out.”  The last stanza stayed with me all day. (And believe me, I was grateful it wasn’t “Africa” Toto.)

Down there where the river bends/I guess that’s where the story ends/and if you ship sets sail without me/here’s hoping that you’ll think about me/the pain begins to amplify/I stop to wonder if I’m dying/trying so hard not to show/dying from the inside out.

Not the best lyric ever written, the rhyme scheme (if you want to call it that) is strained but it is slightly evocative with the river bend imagery.  However, the meaning is really brought to life by the strangled passion of Bob Mould’s vocal and Richard Thompson’s searing solo.

Yes, rock lyrics AREN’T supposed to be poetry. (Especially if written by Bono and Sting but occasionally coming up to the poetry line if written by Bob Dylan and Leonard Cohen.) But that is the best part of rock lyrics: they aren’t subject to the same rules of verse a poet has to learn and/or follow so they can go anywhere, do anything, be nonsense (Who Put the Bomp) or utter literal (the Clash).

Even with the freedom of anything goes inherent within the lyrical part of the art form, there are still those lyricists who have overreached, been slightly less than artful or just plain bad.

So dear reader, without further adieu on this last Sunday in April, here are my five worst lyrics of all time.  They appear in no particular order.  Artist is listed first then album, song and finally the offending piece of English with a little commentary from your occasionally intrepid blogger.

Bob Mould – Workbook – ‘Sunny Afternoon’

“They’ve held me down for long enough/like a flower I need to grow.”

Maybe the worst lyric EVER written.

U2 – Pop – “Staring at the Sun”

“There’s an insect in your ear/If you scratch it won’t disappear/It’s gonna itch and burn and sting/you want to see what that scratching brings.”

No, I just want it to stop you twit.

Duran Duran – Rio – “Save a Prayer”

Bob And you wanted to dance/so I asked you to dance but fear is in your soul/some might call it a one night stand but we can call it paradise

Until the wife finds out.  Bryan Ferry has a lot to answer for.

Lou Reed – Berlin – ‘Caroline Says’

There is no such thing as better living through chemistry.

Right Said Fred – Right Said Fred – “I’m Too Sexy”

“I’m too sexy for my cat too sexy for my cat/Poor pussy poor pussy cat”

I guess bestiality was the hip thing for pop stars to do back in 1992.

The Core Belief

A quick shout out to all patrons of the arts, curious or just knuckleheads looking for a free drink doing something different to do in the Los Angeles metropolitan area.  This evening, my friend and fellow Detroit expat Johnny Otto is having his work showcased at the Ashley Paige Gallery in Hollywood.

(From the Facebook invite):

Swimsuit Designer Ashley Paige, whose clients include today’s hottest celebrities, such as Amy Adams, Carmen Electra, Christina Aguilera, Jessica Alba, Fergie, Gwen Stefani, Britney Spears, Natalie Portman, Kate Hudson and countless others, is hosting an exclusive Art Show which will exhibit the works Filmmaker/Abstract Artist Johnny Otto, LA Painter/Street Artist/Graffiti Writer/Muralist Annie Preece, and Russian Photographer Yuri Sountsov. The event will take place in Ashley Paige’s Hollywood Gallery. The opening night gala is expected to draw an intimate and eclectic crowd from the world of art, fashion, film, music and TV.

Join us for a glass of Trouble Maker wine or Liberty School wine Sponsored by Hope Family Wines
Or perhaps you prefer Tequila? We’ll have that too!!

OPENING NIGHT RECEPTION

Wednesday, April 24th 7pm-10pm
At the Ashley Paige Gallery 
7501 Sunset Blvd. Hollywood, CA 90046

Tequila, swimsuits, stars, Hope Family Wines and the work of Johnny Otto all in one place?  What are you waiting for kids?  Just go!

At the door, tell ‘em I sent you.

The Con

With the events of last week now firmly (thank G-d) in the past, the post mortems have begun.  The whys, wherefores, and therefores of the Boston Bombers and the Ricin letter writer are being hotly debated on the 24/7 Cable TV news cycle.

Well these men and women, much smarter than I, try master the motives of abhorrent behavior and the darkest recesses of the human soul, I like to take a minute to offer some advice, criticism if you will, to Messer’s. Tsarnaev and Curtis on their various terroristic performances during the week of April 14, 2013.

Gentlemen it’s time to go back to terror school.  You failed Terrorism 101 and it showed.  So for the sake of intellectual honesty, we are going to go back and look at each of these campaigns and see where the weak sports were.

Let’s begin with Paul Kevin Curtis, the delightful Ricin letter writer from Mississippi.

Mr. Curtis, when mailing poison laced letters to public officials don’t sign them with your real name or initials. Use a pseudonym or some sort of evil sounding nom de plume. Your ignorance of proper letter laced with poison/bomb procedure has just made it that much harder for all the other terrorists out there. Schmuck.

This leaves us with the Boston Marathon Bombers, Tsarnaev brothers.

First of all gentlemen, you have to sort out what kind of bombers you intend to be: suicide or your run of the mill drop the bomb on the ground and run away sort.  If the former was your goal, then walking into a crowded event with cameras covering you from every angle was the way to go.  However, you chose the latter scenario.  So perhaps getting on the first boat out of the Commonwealth of Massachusetts was a better move than staying in the metropolitan Boston area.

Secondly, if you intend to get into a firefight with the heat and go out in a blaze of glory, then let the law enforcement professionals kill you.  Getting run over by the car you stole with your little brother driving and then said younger sibling repeats the same firefight mistake in a fucking boat less then 24 hours later does not make for good trade craft.  In fact it makes you fucking morons.

In retrospect, the moral of the stories of last week appears to be this: yes, these brilliant diabolical wanna be attacks are conceived by these losers looking to be Super Villains but they don’t come off as planned.  This is because the people behind the plots aren’t Lex Luthor.  They’re drooling idiots who believe what they read in the New York Post.

Somewhere Sun Tzu is getting drunk in shame.

The Core Belief

No, not the band, get your head out of the 1980′s!

My server has been having issues I haven’t been able to log on to the Zola System at all this week.  At the moment it appears as though the Teamsters have finished their coffee breaks as thus I’ll should be able to post new material beginning tomorrow.

With my apologies gang!

Alex Zola

The Best Of The Zola System

Due to the horrific tragedy in Boston yesterday and the Ricin laced letter sent Senator Wicker of Mississippi which was discovered earlier today, I thought this re-post might be helpful to those travelers out there.

Fore armed!

The nearly successful Detroit Airline bombing on Christmas day has thrown the airlines, security and hijackers back onto the front pages and cable news leads.The question for many of us remains: what would we do if we were in a hijack situation?What would we do if we were sitting next to the airline bomber?

Here are some helpful phrases I’ve had translated into Arabic to help if you should find yourself in just such a situation.

*الله اكبر – Allah Akbar– Translation: Duck

* وأعتقد أن كل ما لديك من أي وقت مضى الفكر أو قال في حياتك - I believe everything you have ever said or thought in your life.

*واسمحوا لي أن الاستلقاء مع فيتنام لامعة العصر ام 16 في مؤخرة رأسي - Please let me lie down with your shiny Vietnam era M-16 at the back of my head.

* هل وضعت بقية سي 4 في حقيبتك؟ - Did you put the rest of your C-4 in your luggage?

* هل الرعاية لاستخدام بلدي أخف بك بدلا من المباريات على المألوف تنفجر الملابس الداخلية؟ - Would you care to use my lighter instead of your matches on your fashionable exploding underwear?

* أنا الفرنسية ، وذلك من أمثالك ، وأنا أكره الاميركيين. - I am French, so like you, I hate the Americans.

* أنا لست يهوديا. - I am not a Jew.

Given the state of our current airline security I wouldn’t knock myself out trying to find the phonetic translation.  I’m sure the plane will have hit the ground before you get to show off your newly learned counter-terrorism capabilities.

The Con

Throwing up in a strangerʼs bathroom, Iʼm scared that heʼll hear me. Have to wipe the porcelain clean after each new volley. Iʼm supposed to clean his house, but I canʼt even breathe without sweating. Canʼt quit though. Itʼs the only money Iʼll make all week.

A porcupine is swimming through my blood. Iʼm exhausted and sweating. Just pushing the vacuum leaves me breathless.

Iʼm alone and thereʼs no one who can help me. Theyʼre all two thousand miles away.

Thick Pine-Sol fumes donʼt help the nausea. I think to myself “This is Los Angeles.”

A thousand dreams expire here for every one success. You can smell the rotten ones everywhere. Iʼm gonna hit it big one day though, just you wait.

Showing up for my housekeeping gig with a 100 degree fever is looking, in retrospect, to have been a spectacularly shitty idea.

The joints in my body creak and groan like tired door hinges. “Just a little longer. Hang in there. Hang in there.” Iʼm saying this out loud as I leave the manʼs house. People veer off of the sidewalk to avoid me.

Canʼt drive. Gas is too expensive. So a dripping, fevered kid compulsively clutching at empty air has to take the metro. I sleep on the floor of the metro station. I sleep sprawled across two chairs on the train. Still have a full mileʼs walk in the California sun to get back home. Iʼm breathing fire that tastes like poison ivy.

(Damn it, I know itʼs a pretentious thing to think, but a part of my brain canʼt help but pipe up, “So this is what being poor and miserable feels like! Iʼve read all about this!”)

Back in Kentucky, people are erecting statues in my honor. Everybodyʼs so proud of me. Gotta keep going.

Every step forward somehow takes me backwards. My apartment never seems to get any closer. I knock on car windows at red lights to see if somebody can give me a ride. They all speed away. I recognize some of the music blaring from their stereos.

Is this what art will always be? Will I ever get where Iʼm going?

“Just a little longer. Hang in there. Hang in there.”

Ok, back to the drink.

– Nathan Wellman