handbasket

Dance?

2005-02-26T07:37:00.000-08:00

The other day while laying in my bed channel surfing, I came across a music video on MTV. As surprising as that sounds - MTV playing a music video, that wasn't what interested me. The video playing was a song I had heard at less 50 million times from the 4 Hiphop/R&B/Pop/Rock/Top 40/bad music stations here in Philly. The song, 1,2 Step By Ciara is a breathy Pop song with a catchy chorus more suitable for the Gym then a Music video. In Ciara's own words the songs beat is

"Automatic supersonic hypnotic funky fresh,Work my body so melodic"

I would have to agree with her on this. If you hear this song once, your hooked! I'm not saying it a good song, just catchy. As I lay there nodding my head, to my surprise there is a part in the video where she breaks down how to do the "1,2 step."

Growing up in the 80's any new dance move that I saw I mimicked immediately. Most I can still do - My cabbage patch is the bomb. I found my self standing in the middle of my room pressing record on my DVR so I could take a closer look at this "1,2 step." After watching it a couple of time I thought I had it down. Just when I was about to unleash my new dance move on the world I happened to remember that I was 25 years old.

Most of said moves I learned in the 80's are only brought out when some kind of alcohol was involved. So why was I trying to learn a new dance move, at 25 no less? I'm not saying that people who are 25 shouldn't be dancing. Ciara, Usher and the like get paid very well to dance. I just don't think I should be learning new dance steps. If I had gotten the 1,2 step down and decided to do it at a party how uncool would I be? Not cool at all! There for, there is no need for me to learn new dance moves. All the moves I have from the 80's and early 90's - MC Hammer, will suit me fine if they ever need to be called on. But I know that one day at some party where I'm drunk, someone will challenge me to a dance off and I'll have my bag full of 80's and 90's dance moves and they will break out the 1,2 step and I will lose.

Mommy, Can I Sleep Over my Pop-star Friend's House?

2005-02-21T12:08:00.000-08:00

by brian c. turner
There is no other acceptable answer to this question but “NO!” One might say it’s not the constant mockery of his accused heinous crimes, which in this day and age is only for laughs and rarely satirical, that makes Michael Jackson so infamous. It’s Michael Jackson’s sick perverted self. . . Oh, and the monsters who feed him. Past accusations and legal matters concerning the moonwalker have always been a little suspicious to me in that they’ve had testimonial credibility but con-artist undertones. Hearing about the “zebra penis” was altogether shocking but incredibly easy to believe, especially when the King of Pedophilia refuses to bare it and prove wrong. Nevertheless, such riveting yet disturbing testimonies of the past have lost all merit once a settlement is made and Paul McCartney inadvertently turns “the Never Land Shuffle” into a Million dollar lap dance for Jacko courtesy of the royalties from “Yesterday.” There’s something different about the current accusation. These parents have claimed that they are in no way looking for a settlement but instead want Michael to legitimately pay for what I consider an evil, self-serving, infinite torture to his supposed victims. What occasionally goes unnoticed is that these children are victims of a “BAD” monster as well as incredibly poor parenting. Maybe they were living in a cave since Michael’s first nose job. . . that is still no excuse for being as neglectful as to let your children spend long amounts of time, we’re talkin’ weekends, with Michael Jackson.
First off, Celebrities are not babysitters, especially if they WANT to watch your kids. I don’t care who it is. They have bizarre illogical tastes and the recklessness and money to seek them out. Being celebrities, they are as crazy as we could ever dream of being without the law demanding we be in some sort of mental institution. Hollywood is practically the giant straitjacket for a portion of America’s insane. If it does break away like the rest of California is destined to do, I’m not throwing over the rope to pull it back, especially if Gary Busey is waiting to catch it on Arnold’s Island. Back to my point. . . Michael Jackson, the ultimate celebrity, is the current sleepover buddy of your child. I don’t care if it’s Julie Andrews asking if my kids can come over and make dresses out of her curtains, I would never let my children spend time with a celebrity. Let the stars ruin their own children’s lives.
Okay. . . maybe they weren’t quite aware that stardom equals dementia. Don’t they know a Pedophile when they see one? As Primetime Live’s cameras slowly scowled the Never Land grounds and house, I flashbacked to the time the carnival worker revealed his genitalia to us as we road through the FunHouse ride. Jackson had toddler-size dollies lined up and down his steps. If they're anatomically accurate, victims could show mommy and daddy where the bad man touched them on the way out. A Zoo, A Carousel, A Movie Theater. . . this is what happens when the creepy guy in the trench coat has too much money for simple bait like candy. Hansel and Gretel beware; there’s a new witch in town. He can dance circles around that gingerbread house and has to stay away from ovens or his face will melt. If at sometime during the trial, testimony reveals that these parents just dropped their kids off at the giant golden gates outside of Never Land, I’ve lost all faith in any theory of maternal instinct.
These current accusers were confronted by so many ominous signs, the most obvious being HE’S MICHAEL FUCKING JACKSON. . . KEEP AWAY FROM CHILDREN!

A Related Story

2005-02-21T12:04:00.000-08:00

by brian c. turner
On my way home from a night at the bar on Saturday, my taxi driver decided to take the ever-so quick and stop-sign-littered Bainbridge St. As we passed, 13th street, he broke the silence with mention of one of my favorite local eyesores, “Penn Steaks.” Apparently, not only is this establishment not owned and sponsored by our state government (don’t let the name mislead you), but it was recently busted as a drug front. In all honesty, I wasn’t the least bit surprised. The protective steal window is always down though the sign reads “open” long into the morning. Stationed in an open field where the native Philadelphia car tire bushes grow, Penn Steaks is the only cheesesteak place where there isn’t at least one person in line at all times of the day. I never had the balls to walk into Penn Steaks to try and compare their advertised product with the other high-priced bottom feed of the area, but just from the looks of the outside, I’m sure it didn’t take long for detectives, traffic cops, hell even town-watch 80 year olds to realize there was something suspicious going on. I’m not disgusted with Penn Steaks’ upkeep (c’mon drug fronts advertise by looking nothing like the business they’ve chosen as a façade), and my intention is not to mock the law enforcement for not picking up on this sooner (Who knows how or when this investigation began?). I would, however, like to suggest that the city cherish this opportunity to investigate other possible cheesesteak drug fronts. I’m sure that if the FDA did enough tests, they would find some kind of hallucinogenic/upper-related chemical among the people or possibly the food of Pat’s and Geno’s. I don’t expect any kilos to be uncovered or bricks of weed to be sniffed out, but I’ll be damned if those 3-day old caramelized onions don’t leave s with psychedelic visions of pink flies with trails. Perhaps the FDA or some other government agency can’t find any intoxicating effects from the food served there, they may be able to determine that people can still overdose on this shit. The result, if not fatal, can be noxious to the digestive system and corrosive to the sphincter. CAUTION: Will cause consumer to sweat deep-fry oil. If we’re going to clean up this city, let’s get rid of all establishments who promote addiction and health deterioration.

yeah, i went out with a pat or a geno...

2005-02-13T02:35:00.000-08:00

by brian c. turner

I have recently moved to South Philly and am loving it. BUT, there is one Philadelphia staple based right down the street from me that continues to baffle my mind when contemplating the wants and desires of the human brain: "PAT's and GENO's." I have many complaints about the 2 establishments, what they serve as food, what they leave littered on my streets, and what vermin they host to, BUT I do end up giving either place about $20 a year at the least. George Foreman's grill is only a step away from being a primitive spit sitting outside of homoerectus' cave. Hey, those cave men knew how to eat healthily, let the fat drip to the ground, wash it down with some lake water, club a "hottie," and burn the calories procreating (and, in turn, evolving) inside the warm covering of the carcass they just roasted. A simple yet healthy way to survive all the way up to the life-expectant age of 20? Millions of years of evolution in body and mind has only allowed for rationalizing when deciding what to eat and more importantly how to prepare it: with onions soaking up grease that's older than city hall, beef that has so much fat that you can't tell the difference between it and the cheese, and cheese whiz that's more orange than Jim Henson's prototype for muppet pigment. Pat's and Geno's: turning the four food groups into heart poison for all of Philadelphia to enjoy. I have the choice not to buy a cheesesteak, and consequently, not file early on the list of who needs an organ transplant, but I don't seem to have a choice as to whether or not my block can be used as the trash receptacle for thousands of paper products filled with cheese and grease (feeding a family of rats for a day). Obviously, Pat's and Geno's move to inspire their customers not to throw their trash all over the street, with strategic placement of trash cans that are emptied by a strong city-breeze, is not cutting it. Take a look in the glassed-in stainless steel kitchen of either establishment and you'll see two sweaty guys flippin' onions, one guy slappin' beef and cheese on bread, one pimply secret sauce supplier pumpin' cheese whiz on fries, an androgynous prized pig takin' money, and fifteen other tee-shirt advertisers sitting their fat asses on the cutting counters. Give those fifteen mother fuckers a trash bag and send them to my block goddamnit, and remember to stick a cork in their noxious asses before you let them leave the fortress of slob-wit-tude. As said before, I'm quite a hypocrite on this subject matter. Geno's (what I consider to be the cleaner of the two) is like an x-girlfriend to me. At 2:00 A.M. on a Saturday, I'm walkin' home, having 3 too many specials at B&B's, and come across the x-girlfriend. I start a conversation (place an order), and before I know it, nostalgia turns into sex with regret, or, in this case, french kisses and oral wit' provolone and onions. The next morning you regret the visit, there's a pungent odor on your fingers, and whatever it was that was so good about doing it last night has left your memory. Instead, you're left with only the toilet-filling aftermath and a vow to never do it again.

i am who

2005-02-13T02:13:00.000-08:00

by nicole c. fix

i am an explorer and of the word who
i wonder about—a world wearied
and as overwritten as a sucky book.
i hear the cries of the children
buried by the waves of sadness
over india’s pain.
i see the devastation of a land
consumed by water
as if someone spit on it—
and we have—just not today.
i want to pick up the axe of justice & action
and wield it—chop
up the metals of hatred, but all
i really feel i do is chatter
socialist blah, blah, blah,
and i touch nobody, do nothing
for nobody.
i cry for the word of the peoples
because they are not heard from inside thatched huts—
perfection means nothing to moneyed men.
i am an explorer and of the word who
i understand—that for all the books
i am the ignorant baby
born of clear eyes
the true keeper of the innocent.
i say this is the ramblings
of a weathered woman without
the belief in humanity
but belief of the world, and
i caress the contradiction of me, so
i can try to stay positive
when the black sucks
me, the giant vacuum of negativity.
i hope for tomorrow; i hope for the world
cuz
i am an explorer and of the word.
WHO?

Webster's America

2005-02-13T01:43:00.000-08:00

by Brian C. Turner

Recently, a friend of mine asked me what the best argument for "gay marriage" is. First of all, wording the question like that doesn't really point out the issue. To take this question literally, I would simply answer, "If your gay and truly love your partner, marry him/her." However, it is in seeking to answer her simply worded question with a clever joke, that I can't help but realize what the real problem is: they wouldn't be able to follow my advice. SO I responded with this instead: No politician wants to completely say, "hey, I'm totally for Gay Marriage being recognized in every state in this country." Even the ones who claim to be liberal 'walk on eggshells' around the subject. They always say that "marriage" is between a man and a woman, but gay "couples" should be able to file their union legally and receive tax assistance, (by the way, if the gay and lesbian community were really fighting for the benefits of being a married couple in this country, they're doing so for naught since whatever claims to be assistance or advantageous under our government usually amounts up to change saved over a lifetime; let's not kid ourselves, we're fighting to make a point, to be recognized, in all senses of the word [that's right I did say "we" and threw the objective tone of this commentary out the window]). If the problem is semantics; no political hypocrite wants two men's or two women's love legally categorized under the same word as the bond they have with their wife or husband, especially since the word has a religious connotation. We all know that however many ecumenical councils there are, most religious followers just ignore their progress and, instead, find comfort in the quotations (or guised inspirations) of some ancestor whose larger problems were "how many pyramids will I break my back building today" OR "Gee, I hope I don't get doused with lamp oil and used as a torch at Nero's centurion pre-game party." Point being, the biblical stance on important issues of today is groundless since to those who wrote the "damned" thing (no pun intended), these modern day issues were nowhere near as important much less even debated (could you imagine a Leper colony arguing over whether a woman has the right to get an abortion? That argument would last for about 3 minutes before one of the opponent's ears or lips fell off.) I have a solution to this semantics issue, why don't we award homosexuals the right to receive governmental benefits of being legally bound to one another but not under the word "Marriage." Instead, let's create a new category: "long-time fuckers." This will be perfect in that it will breakdown such a bond to its basic nonsecular parts and justly offend any asshole who can't deal with homosexuality by forcing them to picture every gay couple in the act when they are informed that the two women/men, with whom they were just having a delightful coversation, are newly "long-time Fuckers." Despite my preoccupation with language, can we just cut all of the semantic bullshit and start valuing human rights, or what's left of them, for once?