In the midst of the dog days of summer and silly season of presidential politics, along comes the antidote to assuage the unease of an electorate that still thinks praying to Mecca will be priority #1 should the Dems prevail. Here's the perfect slice of Velveeta that sets back Barack Obama's blackness at least a decade. That and the fact he's:

1. Never gonna give you up.
2. Never gonna let you down.
3. Never gonna run around and desert you.

So chock full of dorkiness, it's magically delicious.

Labels: Barack Obama, parody, Rick Astley

He couldn't make himself Black. He couldn't make himself a woman. But what he could make himself a stone cold hypocrite. Son of a mill worker? Nope, a simple "son of a bitch" will suffice. It's probably obvious that I am no John Edwards fan. But the irony of him finally landing the mainstream media spotlight for his alleged baby mama drama isn't what chaps my ass. It's the unmitigated gall it took to roll the dice with the future of the Democratic Party knowing full well this time bomb was bound to detonate at any given moment. Were he the presumptive nominee today, the shock waves of this disclosure now would've been an automatic forfeit for another go round of Republican rule, especially given the history of the Clinton impeachment he had a bird's eye view for as a freshman senator in 1999. When the GOP has spent the past 7½ years bending over the American public raw, it may be wise to let rationale reign over raw ambition.

But even more pathetic than the two faces to go along with the vaunted "two Americas" line was the revisionist history from the liberal left to fluff a career corporatist who suddenly hopped onto the progressive populist bandwagon after discovering a conscience soon after exiting the Senate in '05. I remember being curled up on the sofa watching Alexandra Pelosi's Diary of a Political Tourist right before the 2004 election and thinking this guy was as deep as a kiddie pool. Co-sponsored the Iraq War Resolution, reversed his position 4 years later. Voted for No Child Left Behind, campaigned against it. Voted for the 2001 Bankruptcy Reform bill, denounced it afterward. Voted for the Patriot Act, then attacked it as if his "aye" suddenly turned into vapor. It's a given that politicians contort their positions on the issues with more flexibility than a rhythmic gymnast. But running against your entire record on the premise of a born again conversion is truly some next shit. Even worse was the fact that so many in the "reality based" blogosphere ate it up like shrimp and grits.

Voters who were hoodwinked by Edwards willfully chose to be so. A cursory glance at his legislative record shows that he didn't support the grassroots cause that he'd appropriated as his own during the campaign. Even when comparing the 2.0 update in 2008 to the 2004 beta model, it was a total split personality. Listening to his rhetoric, his appeals were tugged squarely on the heartstrings. When you look at these things combined, it's pretty obvious that he was exploiting a niche, considering the makeover he underwent once he realized his future in North Carolina circles had reached a dead end.

The core argument for Johnny Be Good's candidacy during the primaries was that he was the safe bet. The sure thing. The one you could trust. The last White guy standing. Compared to a polarizing first lady and the half Negro rookie with the weird name, Edwards was the prototypical Southern pretty boy with a beloved wife, stable of fresh faced kids, and the battle scars of a general election already under his belt.

But lo and behold, he was the riskiest choice of the three.

I guess this is the part where we all just embrace our inner Francophile and consider this a personal matter and wrinkle noses at the puritanical prudes who dare pass judgment. That is until the next Breck boy with a Dixie twang comes along to charm the pants off progressives who won't bother to read the fine print on the warning label.

Nancy Pelosi, Harry Reid and Howard Dean should be kissing Barack Obama's ass from now till November 4th because they dodged a bullet here.

Labels: Elizabeth Edwards, John Edwards, politics, scandal

After the debacle served on a silver platter thanks to David Remnick & Co. with the New Yorker magazine fiasco, here comes a second round of mockery recycled as a "homage" thanks to the tone deaf crew at Harper's Bazaar. Imitation is usually the sincerest form of flattery, but this misses the mark. Badly.

The weirdness factor has less to do with Team Bizarre cashing in on the adulation via exploitation with Alexi Lubomirski's photo shoot so much as their decision to use Tyra Banks in the role of First Lady. If they decided to cast the part of Michelle Obama using a model with more in common than just being merely Black (the editors & stylists can't tell us apart), the spread could have gone a long way to further the soft power of imagery during this political season. However, by cheapening the subject with Tyra — a publicity hound who never met a gimmick she couldn't bilk for ratings — the end result falls far short of Jackie O. and into Jackée territory.

One wonders, is this because Glenda Bailey was unable to get the real thing, or because Banks wants to take America's Next Top Model to its most extreme conclusion?


Ty-Ty isn't merely content to hitch her cultural relevance on the most important election in a generation. Oh no, she goes way further than that to dispense some "judge's advice" for Mrs. Obama:

"Oh, I want her to not take herself too seriously," she says. "She'd need to know how to take a fierce picture but at the same time be able to eat fried chicken, have grease on her fingers, and be okay with getting photographed like that, too. I'd want her to feel like every child in America is hers — to have a true connection." Her expression turns serious, then she winks. "I would also want her to know how to beat her own face. That means do her own makeup. In the end, the first lady should be her man's rock and his boulder and his mountain. And she should be calling about 50 percent of the shots!"

Of course, Tyra always brings it around to talking about herself so, trapped inside her own fantasy world, we're offered these pearls of wisdom on being a commander-in-sheath:

"I'd wear a V-neck shift and a two-inch heel. Even if the president were taller, I would keep them low. Otherwise it gets a little too sexy. I mean, I was a high-fashion model, but I was also a swimsuit model and a lingerie model, so I would constantly be making sure that I wasn't looking like that." As for hair, perhaps a Jackie/Michelle-style flip? "...my question isn't to flip or not to flip. Mine would be to weave or not to weave." What would be her Secret Service acronym? She pauses, smiles broadly, and replies, "KMFA: Kiss My Fat Ass."

Dear God Almighty. We don't believe you, you need more people.

"She's not me. She doesn't have my name. She'll never have what I have. It won't be the same..." - Madonna, She's Not Me

On a brighter note, the Brangelina strategy for prime print-media real estate continues with the real McCoy gracing a newsstand near you on the current cover of Ebony looking fierce.

Labels: fashion, Michelle Obama, politics, Tyra Banks

Politics certainly makes for strange bedfellows, but this takes shark jumping to an Olympic level. Paris Hilton... voice of reason? Then again when a jailbird socialite is able to read off a teleprompter more convincingly than the Republican contender for President, it shows how fucked your campaign really is. Moral of this story? Trying to one up attention whores who actually do this for a living is a losing battle.

Labels: Indecision '08, John McCain, Paris Hilton, politics

What's the best gift money can't buy? 270 electoral votes. Or turning Virginia, Colorado & North Carolina blue. Here's hoping that's one belated present ready to be unwrapped come November. In the meanwhile, happy birthday, Senator Barack Obama.

Labels: Barack Obama, birthday, celebration

There's a tipping point in every one's life where it's a struggle to laugh to keep from crying. Not necessarily a moment of clarity or some great epiphany, but just that winking reminder God's fucking with you and there's no recourse. I think I just hit mine at approximately 1:19 this afternoon. Sitting on Mott Street with a plate of crab and pork dumplings polished off, I ended my meal with a fortune cookie that had no fortune. Like it was necessary for a cookie to point out the obvious. Talk about the universe nailing a moment in schadenfreude. 100 days and counting to refinance my mortgage before the rate triples. Frustration with fruitless pavement poundings to find a full time gig that pays worth a damn. I used to wonder if those radio commercials with Lucinda Bassett weren't just an exercise in melodrama, but now I feel like I want to curl up in a ball on my sofa night and day too. Le sigh.

Anyhow, I'm gonna let my navel-gazing meter park right here. It's been almost a full 4 months since my last post and as usual, that's terrible. But hey, shit happens. And besides, I don't think entries bemoaning my broken air conditioner and using crinkled church fans to compensate really qualifies as intriguing reading. So, much to catalog in my latest absence. Much to vent about the circus atmosphere that is the general election now underway, the Summer Olympics right around the corner and the usual mishegoss that constitutes my life on the D-list.