This is Nova. She is nine weeks old today, and she weighs 13 pounds.
My huge ol’ noggin is bigger than an entire dog!
By the time Nova—adopted last week by my friends Nika and Jeff—becomes a full-grown Rotweiler, she’ll hang at a tough 95 pounds of adorlable snuggler. A super-Nova, if you will.
When I opened the New York Times in the coffee shop this morning, a circulation sheet for all the newspapers delivered in my neighborhood slipped out. We can see what folks around 21st and Union read with coffee.
I was surprised to see that the PI subscriptions were almost on par with the Times. Given the Blethen family whining about keeping the Hearst paper on life support, I assumed the PI would have half the readers of the Times. And perhaps it does—just not in the pinko Central District.
Then there are the nationals, I think. “WSJ” is the Wall Street Journal. “NYT” is a stand-alone acronym that requires no extrapolation. But what’s “BD,” I wondered aloud as I sipped my Americano. “The Bremerton Dispatch?” a man in a Hawaiian shirt suggested. “Nobody reads the Bremerton Dispatch,” I said. “You’re right,” he replied, pointing at the zero, “nobody does.”
Of course, there is no such publication as the Bremerton Dispatch. But I couldn’t figure out which newspaper “BD” would stand for. Am I an idiot—does everyone know about the BD but me?
The military has quietly canceled the assignment of General Hood, a 33-year Army veteran who was excoriated in the Pakistani news media for one of his previous jobs: commander of the United States prison at Guantánamo Bay, Cuba.
The decision to withdraw General Hood’s assignment has not been announced, but it appears to reflect the widening shadow that the military prison at Guantánamo is casting over American foreign policy. While the United States considers Pakistan a close ally in its counterterrorism efforts, the accounts by Pakistanis who have returned to Pakistan after being held at Guantánamo Bay have added to anti-American sentiment in the country.
But he also had to deal with the fallout of a report in Newsweek asserting that a military inquiry was expected to find that a Koran had been flushed down a toilet at the detention center. The magazine later retracted the article, but the military inquiry concluded that a soldier had inadvertently splashed urine on a Koran. The magazine’s original assertion led to riots in Pakistan and Afghanistan that left at least 17 people dead.
Remind me again what Kansas Congressman Jim Ryan said about Guantanamo… Ah, yes: “I was most impressed with the professionalism of our soldiers stationed there, and I am now more confident than ever that that the operations at Guantanamo are being conducted in a humane and necessary manner.”
About a year ago, some friends planning their trip Burning Man were assembling their edgiest steampunk wardrobes. To me, it was as if they were trying to emulate that scene in Back to the Future III, where Doc returns wearing turn-of-the-century (18th-to-19th century) garb and driving a steam-powered locomotive that could fly! In other words, steampunk can survive only as long as that fantasy can entertain the imagination. The scene lasted about three minutes.
Steampunk’s death knell rang this morning as I opened the New York Times. Because, as everyone knows, the moment a look hits the Style section of the NYT, it’s dead. Or at least in hospice.
To some, “steampunk” is a catchall term, a concept in search of a visual identity. “To me, it’s essentially the intersection of technology and romance,” said Jake von Slatt, a designer in Boston and the proprietor of the Steampunk Workshop ([URL removed]), where he exhibits such curiosities as a computer furnished with a brass-frame monitor and vintage typewriter keys.
“Part of the reason it seems so popular is the very difficulty of pinning down what it is,” Mr. von Slatt added. “That’s a marketer’s dream.”
They build lumbering contraptions like the steampunk treehouse, a rusted-out 40-foot sculpture assembled last year at the Burning Man festival in Nevada and unveiled last month at the Coachella music festival in Southern California. They trawl eBay for saw-tooth cogs and watch parts to dress up their Macs and headsets, then show off their inventions to kindred spirits on the Web.
The very fact that Steampunk is being commodified for marketing purposes should repel the Burning Man crowd, but those Burners are hardly cultural trend-setters for the mainstream. Possible—it’s true—that steampunk fashions will become more prevalent before they wane, it will only ever be on life support. And here’s why.
Steampunk is no value beside irony and the muted hilarity of conflict between past and present. Har har.
Hipster fashion is another example of a trend that has jumped the shark. For what is hipster style but a stab at irony? And even there, the joke is on hipsters—for most of them are white Americans, raised in a consumer mainstream, who “co-opt” symbols of American consumerism. This is like Donald Trump wearing cheap clothes and lavishing himself in wealth to call it ironic.
In lieu of any cultural value among the hipsters, or among the steampunk fashions, they are stillborn. Feckless cultures cheering on the same materialistic aesthetic they purport to reject.
If we look, instead, to subcultures with strong fashion identities that have proven sustainable—not that the people are better people—we find punk, we find hippies. Those are cultures based on values. For their credo and action, those cultures have shaped modern America. Love hippies or hate ‘em, they will continue on strong and liberal America will keep living out their 1960’s dream. But steampunk and hipsters will only be a memory. Neat clothes, though–for steampunk. Not hipsters.
What the fuck is up with the PI’s jazzy promotional video of the streetcar? It’s embedded into an article that supposedly takes a critical look at the proposed expansion of the rarely used, traffic jammed SLUT line.
It’s a cute video, and a catchy little song—but is this the news or part of Nickels’ re-election campaign? Here’s the obvious inspiration.
This sign is in the window at Kurrent, that newish restaurant on East Pine Street.
Where to begin? With the sushi itself. Look at those big starchy rolls. They are grotesque. Then, enormous glossy signs—on par with a convenience store that is “Now Serving TERIYAKI!!!”—promoting shushi’s debut suggests to the would-be diner that raw fish is being shipped in from Kentucky and rolled up in hair curlers with instant rice by some minimum-wage hack. It does not say delicate artisan cuisine. But the real indication that this is not the real deal is the sponsor:
Stoli.
Vodka and sushi? That says we’re gonna get you so hammered you won’t even realized your sushi rolls look and taste like piroshki.
There’s been a demographic shift in the people selling crack engaged in commercial activity in front of our house at 21st and Union. The 20- and 30-something set of crusty guys is increasingly being replaced by young African-American women.
I asked my neighbor across the street if he’d noticed the same thing, fully expecting him to say no, but he had. “They seem to be high-school aged girls,” he said.
We’re not certain they’re selling crack, of course, but the young women wait around until a car drives up, the girl walks over, leans in, hands move… you know the scene. But now they actors are female.
Where did all the crusty men go? Where did the new girls come from? Is this trend occuring anywhere else?
Sister VixXxen’s shoes at the medical-marijuana rally today.
Canada’s conservative government has until June 30th to continue permitting a safe injection facility for intravenous drug users. The benefits of the program are plain as day—lowered rates of disease transmission, fewer overdoses, regular contact between addicts and medical services—but the evidence is taking a backseat to morality.
Scientific evidence alone will not determine the fate of Vancouver’s supervised injection site, an undersecretary to Health Minister Tony Clement said Friday.
Winnipeg MP Steven Fletcher said his Conservative government will make a “rational and thoughtful decision based on science” when it comes to extending or ending a federal exemption for Insite, North America’s only such program.
But Fletcher told The Canadian Press the science is conflicting, so Clement will have to assess what Fletcher calls the “realities of the situation.”
Peer-reviewed studies have suggested the program minimizes harm to addicts, reduces the spread of disease and directs addicts toward rehabilitation programs while reducing emergency health-care and law enforcement budgets.
But opponents say allowing people to inject illegal opiates under supervision promotes drug use by facilitating addiction.
The current exemption expires June 30, when Clement must decide whether to grant another exemption to the Controlled Drugs and Substances Act or amend legislation that prohibits it.
It goes without saying that Clement’s head is shoved up so far up his ass that his sphincter is clenching his windpipes. But, Clement’s shitty outlook aside, the very fact that good drug reforms can occur and the science can justify it, yet, still, asses like Clement can have a sway for “morality” is a discouraging reminder: Drug policy has nothing to do with logic, but an age-old battle over deciding what people can do with their bodies. Even if US drug policies shift completely, it will take vigilance to uphold them on the slippery shit-coated paternal slope. (This is like the vigilance to maintain civil liberties in a complex and free society, rather than the easy-to-understand government of law and order.) As long as the a moralistic argument can be made to simpletons that we are letting people sin, the laws will be in flux. Prohibition, rather, is the only stable drug policy. Like the state of depression, prohibition is a known variable—like a teenager wallowing in sadness and failure. It is the safety of feeling sorry for oneself. It is a mental state that deserves neither sympathy nor mercy.
It was the best of times, it was the worst of times. It was outside a house on north Capitol Hill last night.
The eyes look pensive and concerned.
Brooklyn Park police were looking for a meth lab, but they found a fish tank and the chemicals needed to maintain it.
And a few hours later, when the city sent a contractor to fix the door the police had smashed open Monday afternoon, it was obvious the city was trying to fix a mistake. It happened while Kathy Adams was sleeping. “And the next thing I know, a police officer is trying to get me out bed,” she said.
Adams, a 54-year-old former nurse who said she suffers from a bad back caused by a patient who attacked her a few years ago, was handcuffed. So was her 49-year-old husband. “They brought us here and said once we clear that area, you can sit down and you will not speak to each other,” she said.
Police were executing a search warrant signed by Hennepin County Judge Ivy Bernhardson, who believed there was probable cause the Adams’s home was a meth lab.
“From a cursory view, it doesn’t look like our officers did anything wrong,” said Capt. Greg Roehl. Roehl said the drug task force was acting on a tip from a subcontractor for CenterPoint Energy, who had been in the home Friday to install a hot water heater.
“He got hit with a chemical smell that he said made him light headed, feel kind of nauseous,” Roehl said. The smell was vinegar, and maybe pickling lime, which were clearly marked in a bathroom Mr. Adams uses to mix chemicals for his salt water fish tank.
This story has a happy ending—the city came and fixed the door! So what’s the problem? Adams could have easily heard the intruders and pulled a gun, not knowing they were cops. Then she or the cops could have shot, as happens often in these raids, and someone would end up dead. For a fish tank, or a maple tree, or even an actual pot plant or meth rock.
This ribbed child’s toy, intended for straddling, is located at Miller Playfield.
Now, I’m not saying kids shouldn’t ever, well, do what most kids do. But they ought to learn not to do it in the middle of the park. This could rub some people the wrong way, as it were. I guess that’s all I’m saying.
So I’m sitting down in front of my computer last week, editing a post for Slog, when my phone rings. It’s one of those automated voices asking me to confirm my name—is this a telemarketer, my phone company, the aliens?—but I comply and spit out my name. “Please state your address at the sound of the beep.” This is getting invasive but, what the hey, my address is no big secret. “No address by that listing can be found; please wait while we connect you with an operator.”
“Hello, this is Donnell, how can I help you?”
“I don’t know. You called me. How can you help me?”
“I’m very sorry, sir, I’m calling on behalf of Prevail Credit Union. We have some unusual activity on you account.”
“I went to Oregon last weekend.”
“Yes, sir, what is this charge on your account last night for $4.95?”
So, of course, for the first time in my life, I had spent five bucks to watch a movie on X-Tube—the most wonderful thing on all the Web—the previous night. Never spent a penny on porn before, despite all the pop-up ads, the blinking GIFs, the automatic reroutes to pay-as-you-blow sites, not once had I put a charge on my card for porn. But the one time I do, I’ve got Donnell on my ass about it. Of course.
“That was gay porn. I was downloading gay porn and watching it, Donnell. I’d never done it before, but, since you called me to ask, that’s what the charge is all about. Gay porn.”
A very uncomfortable silence.
“I like gay porn.”
“That’s all right, sir. And these charges at the Shell station?”
“I was buying gas on the trip to Oregon.”
“Have a good day.”
Seriously, did Donnell really have to ask me what the charges were for? He could have just asked me if I charged $4.95 to my account the previous night and if I’d been using my card in Oregon, right? Of course he could have. I think Prevail wanted to talk about gay porn.
My housemates and I have a symbiotic relationship—I like to cook and they like to eat. When I threw something together yesterday, they swooned and begged and passed the plate and said I should turn my culinary forays into blog posts, so here’s the first in a series:
Tamarind and Cumin Salmon
This is a fillet of coho, rubbed with tamarind concentrate, cumin powder, brown sugar, mustard, kosher salt and a dousing of spicy Tapatio; then it was tossed into a pan (with a few shredded onions) of smoking-hot veggie oil and olive oil. I lowered the temp for a minute then flipped it while the sugary rub crusted brown. It’s served over brown rice, a mix of garlic, oregano, green peas and black beans, finished with the seared onions and shredded Monterey jack cheese. The red stuff is salsa and the white stuff is a drizzle of crema Mexicana to cool it down. The salmon was tart and sweet from the tamarind, with a bitter bite of the carbon from the onion and cumin to give it some muscle.
