Arts & Culture

Arts & Culture

Dear Hollywood, Please Get Post-Apocalyptic Vegas Right!

Mick Zano

What is wrong with Hollywood?! The off base depictions of Las Vegas after the blast is really starting to bother me, like diner food. Have you ever noticed that, post some catastrophe or another, Las Vegas instantly turns into the Sahara Desert? Sure there’s a Sahara Avenue but there is no way Vegas will become Lawrence of Arabia six months into some zombie apocalypse.

Sure, this is not a very typical Zano post, but I have to have some fun. Here’s an image from the movie Resident Evil: Retro-reflux or something and a 2nd image from the SyFy movie 10.5 Chocapocalypse…or something.

Dear Hollywood, Please Get Post-Apocalyptic Vegas Right?!

Look at that dune behind the Statue of Liberty? It reaches the eighth or ninth floor of CityCenter! Where is that sand coming from? At least in the bottom image the Luxor seems right in its element. And look at how white that sand is! I haven’t seen anything that looks like that since that time I partied with the former Mayor of Toronto over at Marion Barry’s place.

I live in the southwest, most of the Mohave and the Sonoran deserts simply don’t have many dunes. I’ve seen a few dunes in Death Valley, some sandy patches north of Vegas in the Valley of Fire, and there’s a fair amount a couple of states east in White Sands, NM (where the movie Them! was filmed). They also tested WWII nukes there, which is probably why they had a giant ant problem in the first place. In general, there’s dust and dirt across the southwest, not endless Sahara-style dunes waiting to take back our cities.

Enter exhibit one, the ghost town at Goldfield, NV.

Dear Hollywood, Please Get Post-Apocalyptic Vegas Right?!

I have been here. Many of these structures have stood abandoned for 70+ years and they don’t seem to be anywhere close to being swallowed up by sand. But here’s the Hollywood version.

Dear Hollywood, Please Get Post-Apocalyptic Vegas Right?!

THIS is what the desert surrounding Vegas looks like:

Dear Hollywood, Please Get Post-Apocalyptic Vegas Right?!

I know….because this is where I crawl away and pass out until “Vegas Great” Bald Tony decides to come and collect me. You missed three important hints Hollywood, The Sands, The Dunes and The Sahara are all closed!

Dear Hollywood, Please Get Post-Apocalyptic Vegas Right?!

Oh wait, I have a theory. Maybe the sand came from the volleyball court over at the Monte Carlo? Oh and, sorry, oh Great Bald One for that room damage at the Riviera. Wait….hmmm, there’s probably dozens of volleyball courts in Vegas and if they all to decide to work together…

Power Rangers unite, form of sand!

Dear Hollywood, Please Get Post-Apocalyptic Vegas Right?!

That is some sandy sarcasm for you, but if I see one more messed up version of the coming apocalypse I’m getting on my horse, riding over to Vegas and then I’m going to shout at the top of my lungs…

Damn you, you duned it up! Damn you all to hell!
Damn you, you duned it up! Damn you all to hell!

Reptilican Virus Spreading in the Elderly

Mick Zano

Sure Ebola is a big problem, if you live in West Africa, but here in the good old U.S. there’s a more insidious virus infecting our populous. Conservative “thought” is now airborne and spreads through only a couple of powerful media sources. It can trigger an immediate emotional response from the more primitive centers of the brain, akin to a brain fart. The Limbaugic system?

This virus, known as Reptilicans, can attack the person’s ability to reason, shutting down the higher cognitive functions faster than a Big Gulp of Irish Moonshine. Never order that (I’m talking to you Uptown bartender with the cap). This com-murdoch-able disease has already infected everyone in the Fox Nation and its one of the greatest threats we face—worse still, it’s spilling over into my own political lap like a drunk stripper with an inner-ear infection. Never order that.

This movement is harnessing all the fear, paranoia, propaganda and bigotry in this world as it shifts the focus away from the biggest problem of our time, namely themselves. My years of Henny Penny blog rants went unnoticed so I think it’s time we all ducked. The sky is falling and a recent Pew research poll is backing some of my unsettling claims, here. It basically suggests the ongoing impetus behind our increasing polarization is republican in nature, and—surprise, surprise—it’s predominately a Fox News-driven phenomenon (FNDP). I’m afraid this trend will have a more direct link to our demise than all the jihad-stoning-nutjobs combined. Shock poll: no one shocked by this.

Where political parties come for their news
Where political parties come for their news

I guess all those jokes I’ve made about republicans not being able to connect the dots comes down to the fact…um, they only have one. Here’s Waldman’s take:

“You’ll notice that for the consistent conservatives, trust is basically a function of ideology and partisanship. The only sources that over 50% of them trust are Fox and a bunch of conservative radio hosts.”

Paul Waldman

I would argue the other 50% of conservatives can be broken out into two camps: the semi-sane and the people not really interested in stuff. The semi-engaged will always be among us, but it’s these Walkers we really need to worry about:

Boo! Sorry We Couldn’t Get This Out by Halloween.
Boo! Sorry we couldn’t get this out by Halloween. Our PhotoShopper got into some of that Big Gulp moonshine again.
Our PhotoShopper got into some of that Big Gulp moonshine again.

 “The fact that conservatives are this paranoid should be alarming enough, but it becomes even more frightening when you consider who conservatives do trust in the media. Consistent conservatives only trusted 8 media sources–compared to the 28 liberals trusted–and of the eight, only one has anything approaching respectable reporting or reliable information. And that one, the Wall Street Journal, has good straight reporting but has an op-ed page that is a train wreck of right-wing distortions and misinformation.”

Amanda Marcotte

My recent bashing of the Wall Street Journal, here. Yes, the best of their best remains a shit-show. So why is it working? How is it getting people elected? I admit that they have a rabid fan base but isn’t rabies eventually a lethal? (aka, foam at the mouth and fall the F over already, geez.)

Forging a new reality through bullshit has served them well. It’s good work if you can get it. But what does the truth about anything matter when lies are rewarded with Congressional seats? Of course, our Foxeteer friends would say the midterms were some kind of vindication, but for what? Doesn’t vindication imply being somehow vindicated? I guess not. Who knew? Are they being vindicated for a 7% approval rating in Congress? Someone may thank me someday for my insights—or not—but the only thing I’m sure about is our future selves will never thank a republican. Ever. At least not this current 21st century, batshit variety (CBV).

I am a little annoyed that Obama wouldn’t do those fireside-style chats I suggested long ago, here. He tried to stay above the fray and you can only do that for so long. Obama didn’t explain shit the way he should have, certainly in part because anything he said would have been used against him. But the negatives associated with not speaking outweighed any positives See: would-be Senator Grimes in Kentucky. I understand why that poor woman couldn’t utter the name Obama. Where she’s from that’s a bad idea. Of course, they have one of the best ACA exchanges, “Because it’s better than that there Obamacare!” And, Obama if finally attacking coal, which they apparently use to keep their lungs warm. Regardless, Obama should have shown some balls and exposed these troglodytes for what they are. Pssst, what are troglodytes again? Didn’t they do Wild Thing?

Meanwhile, post the midterms, the rest of the world is still trying to pick their collective jaws off the ground:

“Many of us Canadians are confused by the U.S. midterm elections. Consider, right now in America, corporate profits are at record highs, the country’s adding 200,000 jobs per month, unemployment is below 6%, U.S. gross national product growth is the best of the Organization for Economic Cooperation and Development (OECD) countries. The dollar is at its strongest levels in years, the stock market is near record highs, gasoline prices are falling, there’s no inflation, interest rates are the lowest in 30 years, U.S. oil imports are declining, U.S. oil production is rapidly increasing, the deficit is rapidly declining, and the wealthy are still making astonishing amounts of money.”

A baffled Canadian (as found on The Dish)

What the rest of the world doesn’t understand is that The United States of Andromeda has seceded from this planetary system. We don’t have to live here anymore and, if the republicans do find a way to win in 2016, it will become even more painfully obvious…uh, except to them. you see, there’s that virus in their heads and it’s not going anywhere. It will pat their hand and say it’s not your fault. It wasn’t dumb wars or dumb economics that killed America, it was…

“Wielding a gun that was smuggled back into the country originally from the Fast & Furious scandal, Obamacare jumped over The White House fence and shot our economy in the head.”

—John Q. Reptilican

Remember, peeps, post that R collapse, there’s a few billion other people in the world who aren’t going to have a clue what the hell you’re talking about. With a republican president in 2016, it will be very interesting to see two parallel universes crash right into each other like sumo wrestlers with acromegaly. Never order that.

On the good side, every exchange with another world leader will become spoof news gold! I may lose my shirt, but I will not lose my dignity. Oh, I’m being told my pants are going too. Never mind. A reptilican president will have to deal with so many poor misguided folks across the globe who are still burdened with something called reality.

Dear Reptilicans,

What are you so mad about? Is it because you’re working again? Making too much money on the stock market? Is having less of your children dead or injured due to unnecessary wars too much of a burden? Is it having the greatest decrease in the deficit to GDP ratio in our nation’s history too fiscally sound for fiscal conservatives? Are recoveries really worse than depressions? Is it too distasteful allowing people to have choices that you don’t agree with in this land of the free? Or, are you mad that healthcare costs finally dropped for the first time in decades? Oh, I know…it’s because you or someone you love is now insured, right? …you know, death panels.

Who am I kidding…it’s BENNNNGHAZI!!!!!!!!!!

XOXO,

Ben G. Hazi

P.S. Whoever eventually usurps this shit-show called America is going to try to save and study the brains of reptilicans for…oh, that’s right, you don’t believe in research.

Whereas it’s true the Dems couldn’t or wouldn’t articulate their successes, this is only part of the story. The real nasty bits of this Scheissgeist involves the deliberate creation of an alternate universe—a world I am now forced to reside. Oh rapture!

So dare I drink the Kool-Aid too? Should I just relax and enjoy the show from my virtual window seat, here at the Blog at the end of the universe? Some folks are saying that with republicans running both houses of Congress it will force them to become adults. Whoever said that—uh, I can’t find the link right now—but that statement is the best argument to keep weed illegal. What are you basing this on? (cough, cough….uh, cough, Twinkie). Oh, and speaking of raptures, if the rapture occurs immediately following the next republican-caused economic collapse, and I’m stuck here, I’m going all Old Testament on a certain cloud-hanging bearded donning somna—

[Last sentence edited by GOD]

God doesn’t seem to understand the 1st Amendment either. Imagine that.

Zano’s 21 Day of Self-Imposed Ebola Isolation Deemed ‘Job Avoidance’ Stunt

Zano’s 21 Day of Self-Imposed Ebola Isolation Deemed 'Job Avoidance' Stunt

Flagstaff, AZ—Discord staffer, Mick Zano, was cleared of the Ebola virus earlier this week by a nurse he hired by the hour from Vegas. The story of his exposure to the deadly virus unraveled shortly thereafter. His 21-day isolation at McMullen’s Pub was all part of a stunt that started out as a bet—with the same nurse he hired by the hour from Vegas. Zano reported traveling to Liberia to cover a breaking story for The Daily Discord. CEO of The Daily Discord, Pierce Winslow, arranged for the expedition for what was billed as a story on climate change’s impact on the predatory West African mangrove. Winslow grew suspicious, however, when Zano arranged a Skype session, wherein Zano claimed to be in Sierra Leone but Winslow could clearly hear a live punk version of “Drunken Sailor” in the background.

Winslow told the press today he’s disappointed but not surprised, “He’s tried stuff like this before. You give Zano an inch and he will take a virtual mile. He tried to call in sick for a month last year, saying he contracted the avian flu from a Skynard cover band’s encore of Free Bird. He doesn’t have Ebola. He also doesn’t have a work ethic.”

Zano is suspended without pay until a thorough review can be conducted by The Discord’s Board of Directors. Winslow maintains that Zano’s future with his important spoof news blog is tenuous. Zano already had several marks on his record, not the least is a recent business expense involving a “nurse” from Vegas.

Mr. Winslow is not lifting his own self-imposed quarantine on the Cayman Islands. “I skyped with Zano only two days ago so that means have 19 days before I’m in the clear. You just can’t be too sure of these things,” said Winslow.

High Life in the Pines Indie Music Festival: Featuring Lit

Tony Ballz

The following occurred at the Pepsi Amphitheater at Fort Tuthill, Flagstaff Aug. 26-27, 2011. The names have been changed to protect the irrelevant. Lit were awesome! What a great show! Alright, I’m lying. I didn’t see them at all but that’s OK because I don’t care for their music and I was at the venue for less than two hours and I only saw 1 1/2 bands and I got in for free.

In fact, I could probably name 62,784 things off the top of my head that I would rather do than see Lit in concert, such as: clean the oven, cut the dead skin off my toes, talk to myself, watch the paint peel, have a root canal without Novocain, or go to bed at 7:30.

I had a friend who lived in Flagstaff about 10 years ago who, although he was a pretty close bro, I have to admit had certain personality quirks which were a bit … well … douchey. Like listening to Lit.

He’s the kind of man who would put his pinky and index finger together, lick the tips, place them on his forehead, and splay them apart, thus grooming both his left and right eyebrow at the same time.

He’s the kind of man who listened to a radio station like the Q and watched the WB channel every night before going downtown so he could talk to college girls about subjects they were into. I don’t think all this was just to get laid; I think he actually enjoyed this stuff. He did get hella laid though, probably because he was young and thin and outgoing and good looking and worked at a bar.

One time we were at The Joint (he was serving me drinks and I was drinking them) when Lit’s current hit single “My Own Worst Enemy” came on the jukebox. He broke into a wide smile.

“Ah, here’s my song!”

“Really?”

“Yeah dude, this song is totally me.”

“Really?”

“‘Can we forget about the things I said when I was drunk’ … hell yeah, that’s me all over.”

It sort of bummed me out. I loved this guy. One night he and I stayed up till 5 AM getting ripped on tequila and looking up every disgusting sexual practice we could think of on Wikipedia and reading the entries aloud. He was that kind of brah.

I resigned myself to saying a silent prayer that on judgment day, the gods of quality music would have mercy on his soul.

So yeah, Lit. I found it humorous that their biggest hits were on RCA and they were appearing at the Greedy Corporate Bastards Amphitheater headlining an indie music festival.

How in the hell did they stretch this into a two day event? I’d never heard any of the other out-of-town bands on the bill, but then again I don’t listen to the Q. The local bands were fairly solid and I suppose this was good exposure for them. Deepa are nice peepa and I hear Dave McGraw and Crow Wing are pretty swell as well.

Anywhoo, the reason I was there was because Frankie C’s band got called up at the last minute to play on Saturday afternoon and I had the day off and they put me on the guest list and I figured what the hell, this should be an interesting sociological experiment.

Frankie’s combo plays hopped-up Who/Kinks inspired rawk and rowl just the way I like it: with lots of Keith Moony drum fills and reverb guitar and fuzz bass and songs about how good chicks look. Drummer Stewart is an actual British person who rides an actual Vespa and that accent of his is so damn charming that I almost want to take him to bed every time I hear it. Guitarist Rocky is a cop and he scares the living hell out of me.

Just kidding, Rocky’s a great guy. We do have to hide all the cocaine when he comes over, though.

I arrived at Fort Tuthill ready to rock the lawn with two lovely ladies in tow. OK, one was Frankie’s wife. And the other was Stewart’s. I’m a real happenin’ dude.

This was my first visit to the former Pine Mountain Ampitheater (still can’t seem to use the new name) and it was pretty sweet, just the kind of large but intimate venue perfect for Ween or Willie or Weird Al. Too bad there were only about 30 people there.

The lads were onstage setting up, so Mrs. C and I went for refreshments (Fat Tire for me, Blue Moon for her) and I noticed two very bored-looking girls sitting at the Fight The Quiet merch table, right next to the guy frying burgers.

We returned to the grassy knoll. The MC introducing the band made some smarmy comment about the sharp dressed men onstage (their uniform is: black tie, white shirt, blue jeans. Pretty snazzy really, guess they weren’t wearing enough black for him) and then it was rockin’ time. The ladies and I debated moving up closer, but decided watching them from the lawn would be a more pleasantly bizarre experience.

The sound was fairly loud and clear, but they had that problem where all of the drums and cymbals are individually miked and the sound guy doesn’t know how to make the whole kit blend together. For example, the rack tom was mixed about 3 notches higher than the snare and floor tom, so every time Stewart did one of his Keith Moon snare/rack/floor fills it sounded like this: dudududu DADADADA dudududu. The cymbals were pretty much nonexistent. Other than that, it was OK.

At one point, Stewart said something clever and British into the mic and I told Mrs. S about the time Stewart told a joke onstage at the Monte V that involved a cookie jar, only instead of saying cookie jar he said biscuit barrel, and she and I giggled like schoolgirls over that.

Biscuit barrel. See what I mean? That’s just sexy.

Some MENSA reject in the audience actually yelled “Free Bird!” at the band (I was yelling for “Substitute” and “Pinball Wizard”) and the boys were on top of it. Frankie responded: “Why don’t we leave the stage and YOU come up here and play ‘Free Bird’?”, and Stewart chimed in with: “Sorry, I’m British. I don’t even know what that song is.” I might just steal that last one.

They played a pretty quick set (“My Little Red Book” sounded great from the lawn) and it was over. While they packed up the gear, I grabbed another Fat Tire and Mrs. C bought a pretzel but we had to wait almost five minutes for the guy to change the cheese bag and when she finally got it the cheese was all cold and glutenous. The FTQ girls hadn’t moved.

We hobnobbed with the band on the side of the stage while the next act was setting up. I noticed the singer had one of those flat bodied acoustic guitars like Dave Matthews plays and I thought “Uh-oh”. We told Rocky he should wear his policeman’s uniform at the next show just like the guy in 400 Blows but for real and he said he’d think about it. Frankie informed me there was free food and beer backstage and he went and got me a complimentary brewski.

I don’t remember the name of the next group, but it was just as I feared: 20-something white guys playing limp hippie jazz/funk/rap/whatever. The singer enthused about how great it was to be back in Flag; they had all gone to school here and now lived in the valley. Super. They tried to muster up a little enthusiasm in the face of the poor turnout.

During one tune, the singer told the bass player to “get funky”; he responded with a slap bass solo worthy of the guy from Seinfeld. Right about the time they encouraged us to count how many beer references were in the next song, I started wondering why my formerly-good Fat Tire buzz was turning ugly and I realized the freebie I was drinking was Miller Hi-Life. I poured the remainder into Frankie’s cup (“But it’s FREE, dude!” So is botulism bro, and I don’t want that either). As I threw my cup away, the singer was rapping: “I took out my Steel Reserve and Nut Browned all over her face” and it made me physically wince.

Mrs. C and I were itching to get in the van and leave and Frankie was itching for more free beer, so we went backstage in order to be closer to both. Right before we did it dawned on me that the guy with the porkpie hat onstage was the band’s BEATBOXER and I wondered how one goes about landing a gig like that. Probably pretty easy in Phoenix.

Backstage, the percentage of really skinny white guys all in black with jet-black dyed spiky hair and that “I’m in a band” attitude went through the roof. I had never seen so many of them all together in one place before, it was like a big douchebag convention. At first I figured these were all the Phoenix bands, but then remembered how many of these dorks I’d seen around town and decided the look is pretty universal.

I was eyeing the free food tent when an official-looking meathead came up and semi-apologetically told us: “Steve says everyone backstage has to have red wristbands” and I almost responded: “Well, tell ol’ Steve to bust ‘em out then, let’s go!” I mean, what did he think we were going to do back there? “Ooh, there’s Fight The Quiet! Get their autographs, I’m too nervous.”

Almost on cue, it started raining. The douchebags were looking pretty bummed (all that runny hair gel) and we gladly jumped in the van and bailed. As we drove away, I reflected on my High Life In The Pines Indie Music Festival experience and came to the following conclusions:

a) Never start with Fat Tire and end with Miller Low-Life. It’s like going to bed with Salma Hayek and waking up with Elmer Fudd.

b) “Douchebag Convention” is a fantastic name for a band. Maybe they’ll be headlining next year’s festival.

At home, I felt so shitty that I was asleep by 7:30.

Applause Trailing Off Mid-Set for Local Coffee Shop Duo

Applause Trailing off Mid-Set for Local Coffee Shop Duo

Flagstaff, AZ—By all accounts they were doing great. The local band, Flag Beat, started off the set with something Simon and Garfunkley and, when the applause finally subsided, they banged out the jazzy sounds of old Jelly Roll. Then somehow the applause died off suddenly during the band’s rendition of Spandau Ballet’s True.

“I told my partner in crime there is no good time to play Spandau Ballet,” said Bart Newell, the lead Saxophone of Flag Beat.

Guitar player Mark “rocket” Deluca disagreed, “It wasn’t the Spandau. When we played True at nearby Bushmaster Park, we crushed, we had them eating out of our hands.”

Newell pointed out, “That’s because of the homeless population there. They didn’t like the song, they were just literally eating out of our hands.”

Deluca again protested, “I don’t know what happened. Maybe it’s Ebola, maybe it’s the whole ISIS thing, or it may simply have not been the right time for people to clap. Or maybe they all clapped too much in the beginning. Your hands can start to hurt after you clap too much and we get a lot of that.  Look at the word itself, clap, it’s also an STD. Besides, clapping may be offensive to some groups or fly in the face of cultural sensibilities and that’s the last thing I want to be a part of. I stand by our performance and our song list. We are not changing a thing. Or some might find clapping a violent act; many feel it’s a gateway gesture. I don’t clap myself so I can’t judge others for not clapping.”

Newell added, “He’s got a problem (pointing to Deluca). I should have known when he tried to get me to watch Xanadu. This guy is turning into Yoko Ono on steroids. We’ve been through more bass players than Queen and more drummers than Spinal Tap and it all comes back to two words: Spandau Ballet.”

Flag Beat will be performing next week at Bushmaster Park in an attempt to regroup and return to “their people.” Sandwiches are available upon request.  They are encouraging their homeless friends to stay as long as they want but clap as long as you stay, unless clapping is culturally offensive to you. Lead guitarist Bart Newell is making no promises about attending this performance as he is considering returning to his former band, The Armpit Salesman.  “Those guys may all have the Clap, but at least they get applause,” said Newell.

The Armpit Salesman were unavailable for comment.

Giant Joint Image “Worth Its Weed in Gold” to Discord Photoshopper

Giant Joint Image "Worth its Weed in Gold" to Discord Photoshopper

Most Discord staffers believe image license agreements are “the work of the devil” or could represent “a slippery slope to bestiality.” Keep in mind, most Discord staffers likely smoked a similar joint to the one depicted in the stolen image prior to this fictional interview.

The Discord’s permanent intern and PhotoShopper, Mick Zano, said, “Eureka! I have arrived at the Promised Dispensary! I can stick this giant joint in the face of Obama, Boehner, the Pope, Batman, Beyonce, the possibilities are endless. This image alone could keep my family in beer and coffee for the next two months.”

Zano’s Photoshop statement was later downgraded to Elements as Mr. Winslow apparently wouldn’t spring for the full Photoshop package. The Discord staffer later admitted he doesn’t even have Photoshop Elements, or a family.  He does all Discord images in a sort of Fortranesque Etch-a-Sketch. Actually, Zano just makes shit up, which makes him perfect for the field of spliff…er, I mean spoof news.

Mr. Winslow would like to remove the word “perfect” from that last sentence and replace it with an image of a man passed out in a urinal.

Danzig, Black Sabbath and Jesus

Tony Ballz

Step into the Wayback Machine, Sherman, and set those dials for the glory daze of Flagstaff’s punk scene, about ‘93-‘94ish. It seemed like a good idea at the time. Life in The Mothership with me, Dave N, and our rotating third roommate wasn’t all dance parties, cheap drugs, getting loaded with touring bands, casual sex with high school girls, and running down O’Leary street naked in the snow.

Many an evening found us sitting in our tiny living room, staring into space and bored out of our skulls. Money was scarce. Prank phone calls (in the days before caller-ID) were always dependable cheap fun, but after you’ve dialed the Village Inn and asked for the hair pie twice in a week, what’s left?

We had plenty of music, but the lack of visual stimulation was usually the issue. Cable TV was a luxury and the VCR worked about half the time. The internet didn’t exist (in Flagstaff, anyway). Dave and our friend Clea were aficionados of bad ‘80s movies, and I was fortunate enough to work in a store that had plenty of them for rent (free to employees, of course).

Fully enjoyable was the double feature of Grease II (starring Adrian “The Zmed” Zmed and the screen debut of Michelle “The Fife” Pfeiffer) and The Pirate Movie (featuring Kristy McNichol, the guy from The Blue Lagoon, and the onscreen rape of both Gilbert AND Sullivan), the pain set in around hour three of the Swayze film festival but that blind boy sure plays a mean guitar, I tell you what.

And when all else failed, there was good ol’ broadcast television. Yep, wrap them rabbit ears in aluminum foil and off we go. Flagstaff used to have TWO local stations (and we never thought in a million years BOTH of them would disappear): channel 2 was an NBC affiliate with Flag’s only local newscast (and we never thought in a million years we’d be living in a city without a local newscast), while channel 13 was a proud member of the Trinity Broadcast Network, known to us heathens as The Jesus Channel.

TBN was founded by professional clowns and hypocrites Jim and Tammy Faye Bakker in the 1970s, and by the 1990s it was a flourishing industry, with dozens of affiliates all over this great Christian white-bread country of ours.

Dave and I would watch The Jesus Channel for HOURS and hours. It was our best entertainment value. We never got tired of the constant barefaced greed and arrogance, the bad music, bad hairpieces, bad makeup, bad sets … not to mention all the variations of TBN’s core message: “If you don’t want to go to hell, SEND US YOUR MONEY NOW. That’s right, God can be bought. Heaven is on sale. Eternal paradise is only a personal check away.” All you had to do was pretend these people weren’t real and it was more yuks than Saturday Night Live.

Dave always got a kick out of the fact that TBN’s logo sort of looked like the cover of A Night at the Opera by Queen. When the logo flashed on the screen, Dave would hold the album up next to the TV and we would laugh and laugh. Good cheap American fun.

The televangelists could get really grating, but it was a good night if we caught one of the faith healer yoyos who would bring up a member of their hillbilly audience afflicted with rickets or the gout and SMACK ’em upside the head to drive them Commie demons out. That will be $500, please.

Far and away, our favorite comedian on The Jesus Channel was a guy named Jeff Fenholt. He stood out from the other sweaty child molester types on TBN. Everything about him screamed aging head banger. He was well into his 40s, with a moon face framed by a curly blond rocker mullet. He looked like he belonged behind the counter at Guitar Center ringing up a strap lock and a dozen picks while cranking some Yngwie.

The Holt’s dubious claims to metal authenticity were: a) he played you-know-who in the original 1971 Broadway production of Jesus Christ Superstar (true, although his understudy Ted Neeley landed the movie role), and b) he was the lead singer of Black Sabbath for about two weeks in the mid-1980s.

This was refuted by Sabbath guitarist Tony Iommi, who stated he and Fenholt worked on some demos for a proposed Iommi solo album during a Sabbath hiatus, but that Jeff was never an official member of the band. Fenholt claims Sabbath manager Don Arden (Sharon Osbourne’s father) told him otherwise, and apparently that was enough for him to name drop Black Sabbath whenever possible on the air.

He had a “sexy” feud going on with some Wiccan priestess in Wisconsin. He would say her name and growl into the camera: “I’m coming for you, baby. Oh yes, I am.” He made a big deal out of actually flying to Wisconsin with cameraman in tow, but she went: “(Ding!) Restraining order!” and that was that.

Whether or not he was actually in the greatest heavy metal band in the world and renounced their hell-bound ways for a life filled with Jesus, one fact was inarguable: Jeff Fenholt was a douchebag.

One night Fenholt announced he and his Christian metal group (who never appeared with him on TBN, hmmm …) were touring and spreading the Good Word, perhaps even playing in your neck of the woods. We laughed and said wouldn’t it be great if The Holt was coming here? Then they showed the tour dates, and there it was: Flagstaff, Arizona. Dave and I stared at each other open-mouthed.

“No F^#ing way!”

[word “fucking” edited by the editor]

“Dude, we’re going.”

“Oh HELL yeah, we’re going.”

It should probably be mentioned at this point that Dave and I were singular in our passion for TBN and all things Fenholt. Most of our friends didn’t get it. “How can you guys WATCH this crap? OK, once in a while for a laugh, but EVERY NIGHT?” JRo would hole up in his room when we had it on. Clea gave it a shot, but couldn’t hack it.

Luckily, Primitive Tribes frontman and armchair anarchist Sasha Davis was cut from the same cloth as we, and was just as excited at the imminent arrival of The Man Himself to our shit town. Between the three of us (and several 12-packs of Olympia), a plan was hatched: on the day of the event, we would amass a battalion of local punks, get rip roaring drunk, righteously march into wherever the show was, and scream out the most obnoxious offensive blasphemous profanities imaginable at Mr. Bigshot Mullethead Jesus Rocker Guy and let him know THIS was the face of Flagstaff and that he sucked a big hairy gorilla weiner and so did his band and so did everyone at TBN.

Like I said, it seemed like a good idea at the time.

About a week before the showdate, fliers started popping up around town:

“LIVE! Former BLACK SABBATH vocalist JEFF FENHOLT!”

There was an eastside address and a photo of The Holt’s face leering maliciously at you through his curly blond mullet. Absent were the following words: God, Jesus, holy, church, Christian, Trinity Broadcast Network, and douchebag.

It was laughable, and we laughed. Did this guy think we were total rubes who just fell off the turnip truck and that we would be fooled by his clever ruse and show up expecting a rockin’ good Satanic evening and instead be hit BLAM! with the Lord’s healing power? What a dick.

I tacked a flyer up on our living room wall and The Holt’s glowering mug was immediately defaced with bloody fangs, whited-out eyes, a forehead pentagram, and a speech balloon reading “I Y Satan”. Again, we were REALLY bored.

The first seed of doubt was planted when I rode past the address on the flyer and yep, sure enough, it was a church. Dave and Sasha didn’t care: “Great! It’ll make our blasphemy more blasphemous. And hey, you grew up Catholic … haven’t you always wanted to be drunk in church?”

I had to admit I did.

The next seed of doubt came during our futile attempts to get ANYONE interested in coming along. “Uhh … you’re going to go into a church drunk and HECKLE some guy? Have fun.”

The great day finally arrived, and I raced home from work to find that our army of drunk punks consisted of: me, Dave, Sasha, Clea (our driver and always a good sport), and special guest Mario, undisputed king of the Flag Fiends, worshipper at the altar of Danzig and all things unholy, and future local musician. Oh, and our fuel consisted of a single 12-pack of Olympia between the five of us (did I mention we were really broke?).

These days you can get a pleasant conversation out of Mario, but back then all you got were two or three mumbled words and a silent devilocked glare through a haze of cigarette smoke. I believe on that fateful day he had just stopped by our house to see what was going on and Dave and Sasha hornswaggled him into coming along. The two of them could be quite persuasive.

We polished off the beer and piled into Clea’s little Toyota. The final seed of doubt was finding the church parking lot PACKED full of cars, and the thought “Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea” flew across my mind. The church’s doors were wide open but no metal, Christian or otherwise, was emanating. Posted at the doors were the Sweater Zombies, and their eyes lit up at the sight of us.

“Hey! Thanks for coming! WOW! Here, let us get you seats DOWN IN FRONT!!!”

“NO!!!” we all shrieked. We told them we could find our own seats, thank you very much, and stepped inside.

The church was pretty full. I estimated the mean age of the crowd to be about twelve. They all turned around and gaped at us. I flashed back to my Catholic school days and thought, these kids probably have to be here. Well, they don’t HAVE to, but it was STRONGLY SUGGESTED by their parents and teachers that they attend.

The Holt was at the lectern and his spiel barely missed a beat. Some of the kids started giggling, but Fenholt ignored our arrival and spieled on, drawing the little ones’ attention back to him. The guy was a pro.

We stood frozen at the back of the church. Where was his band? We didn’t see amps or a drum set or any equipment normally associated with rock and/or roll. Just an altar, candles, the tabernacle that housed the Body of Our Savior … church stuff. This was unquestionably the last place on Earth I wanted to be. I said goodbye to the remnants of my two beer buzz.

Dave led us to a spot along the far right aisle, about halfway down. We tried to be inconspicuous, but it was impossible. Anyone who didn’t know we were there before did now, and the giggling started again. The first one in the pew was Mario and you should’ve seen those kids scoot.

Fenholt kept ignoring us. I can’t recall one word of his speech, but I can make a pretty good guess as to its content.

We were obviously the hit of the evening, or rather Mario was. He was definitely the only one present with a leather jacket or devilock. Kids kept turning around and whispering and giggling. Dave and Sasha were nonplussed. Clea and I were a bit shellshocked, but kept straight faces. Mario was slouched so far down next to me he was almost horizontal. He looked like he wanted his body to implode upon itself and collapse into a pile of smoldering ash.

After about ten painful minutes, Clea whispered:

“I need a cigarette.”

I whispered back, “I’ll join you.”

I told Mario what we were doing and the three of us stood up and tried to walk over Dave and Sasha. They decided they needed one too. As we all filed out of the pew, Fenholt stopped mid-spiel and addressed us directly:

“Aw come on, where are you guys going? You don’t have to leave!”

Dave turned, looked at Jeff Fenholt and said loudly:

“Oh, we’re just going for a smoke, we’ll be right back!”

It was one of the funniest things I had ever heard him say and I started cracking up. The impudence in Dave’s voice triggered something in those kids too, and the whole church erupted in laughter as we trooped up the aisle wearing stupid grins.

As we exited, I heard Fenholt trying to get his captive audience back, saying those guys came here expecting some heavy metal, but the REAL heavy metal is God’s … blah blah blah. I thought, tomorrow these kids are going to have some great stories to tell their friends who couldn’t make it (“Dude, you should’ve been there, it was AWESOME!”).

Outside, we lit up. The Sweater Zombies had followed us, and they ran the Divide And Conquer. Dave and Sasha each had three or four of them buzzing around. Dave sounded like he was making some headway with his bunch:

“TBN and the Church always want your money, but look at all that expensive jewelry and stuff they wear. Doesn’t the Bible say ‘Blessed are the poor in spirit’ and ‘The meek shall inherit the earth’? You know, Jesus and the Apostles were dirt poor. They were fishermen and carpenters, they weren’t rich …”

“Hey … you’re RIGHT!”

We found out that Jeff’s band couldn’t make it, but out of the goodness of his heart he decided to come anyway and, you know, just TALK to the kids. What a guy.

I smoked and tried to put on my best “don’t come near me or I’ll kill you” face, but one of them spotted me, smiled widely, and approached with outstretched hand. About 3 steps in, his hand fell and so did his face.

“Hey, there’s a …”

I followed his gaze and observed Mario with his back turned to us, in the classic “man about to have a piss” stance.

“… restroom in the …”

Too late. All conversation stopped, and we listened to Mario pee for a few seconds. The Danzig skull logo stared hollow-eyed at us from the back of his jacket. The expressions on the faces of the Sweater Zombies were priceless. I was shocked, but I felt like applauding. The words “all right” may have passed my lips. Dave, Sasha, Clea and I met each others’ eyes and the same thought ran through all our heads:

“YES!!!”

It was perfect. Mario didn’t actually relieve himself ON the church, just by a shrub planted next to the front doors, but the effect was the same. I don’t know if his intention was to make it a big sacrilegious thing, he probably just had to take a whiz. Nevertheless, it was a fitting comment on the evening’s events. The last word, so to speak. I only wish The Holt could have seen it.

Our cigarettes were done and so was Mario. The sweater Zombies nervously invited us back inside.

“I’m not going back in there.”

It was Mario’s voice, and he wasn’t mumbling. The words weren’t loud, but they were quite clear. His statement was not scared or angry, it was matter-of-fact, like “It’s raining today”.

I decided I had had enough as well. I also realized at that particular moment I needed to smoke a bowl more than I ever had in my life. I asked Clea for her keys and said we would be hanging out by the car.

Our group split up. Mario and I walked to Clea’s car and got inside. I looked at him.

“Wow. That sucked.”

“Yeah.”

We sat in silence. I loaded a bowl and puffed away. A short time later the driver’s side door opened and Clea got in.

 “Let’s get out of here.”

“What about Dave and Sasha?”

“They’re staying. They said they were having fun.”

“Oh.”

As we drove away, I had a mental image of a group of Sweater Zombies in front of the church the next morning holding crucifixes and one of those incense things on a chain, uprooting the tainted shrubbery (to be burned and its ashes scattered) and dousing the ground with holy water.

Apparently after we left, our punker friends Chris and Matt showed up at the church drunker than hell and implored Fenholt to heal them of their alcoholism. It almost made me wish I’d hung around.

I lost my taste for the Trinity Broadcast Network. Seeing that those people actually existed kind of killed the humor.

In 1997 it was revealed that in the late 1970s, Jeff Fenholt was a “boy toy” of the late Gala Dali, widow of Salvador. In her declining years, she was notorious for having a stable of young male lovers, setting them up financially in exchange for sexual favors. She paid Fenholt with several of Dali’s paintings and a million dollar Long Island house. Gala was in her 80s, Jeff in his 20s.

The resulting brouhaha caused Fenholt to disappear from TBN for several years. He eventually made a triumphant comeback, his sins forgiven and his mullet shorn.

Discord CEO Moves All Reporters Into a 1957 Winnebago

Discord CEO Moves All Reporters into a 1957 Winnebago
Alex Bone

Rest Area outside of Bullhead City—In an effort to cut expenses and help fund his second home in Bermuda, CEO Pierce Winslow has moved the entire Discord reporting staff into the old Winnebago his grandmother left him. No less than a dozen reporters, six children, eight significant others, eleven cats, four dogs, twenty-six snakes, a full bar with keggerator, an eight-foot statue of Yig and seventeen cubic-feet of crawdad traps will be living and working from a space roughly the size of Winslow’s guest’s guest bathroom.

When we tried to reach Mr. Winslow for an interview, he wouldn’t allow us into his office. I did hear him bragging to his secretary’s assistant through the door. “They think this is bad, if that thing breaks down wait until they get a load of plan B. Besides, it’s all part of this team building exercise I read about, or at least a slightly more sadistic version.”

Undaunted, the Discord team has tried to make the best of their situation. “We’ll be like pirates,” said Alex Bone, while strapping a six foot statue of Yig to the hood. “Only dumb ones.”

“Yeah, look on the bright side,” added Zano, “with the Ghetto Shaman in jail, at least we won’t have to deal with all of his chickens.”

The women appeared less enthusiastic. After pulling out enough hair to allow Bald Tony to join an eighties hair band, Cokie McGrath shouted, “All the women are relegated to, big surprise, the kitchen! I’ve already heard enough of, ‘well, since you’re there, Cokie, how about twenty sandwiches and a few pizzas?’ And that’s just Bone’s order. I would call them misogynists if I thought they’d know what it meant.”

I spoke with Mr. Tony Ballz, who sat with three cats on his lap between two adults and two small children on a couch. “I’ve had worse,” he said, before turning away to place an order with Cokie in the kitchen.

Since everyone is now housed in the same location, Winslow cut staff expense accounts even further. He rationalized this by sending the gang a Sam’s Club card with a note that read: BUY IN BULK. Alex Bone Is trying to subsidize the food supply by laying out his crawdad traps each night, but when he got arrested for stealing butter, morale fell to an all-time low.

“But at least we have some space,” said Zano. “That tall freak took up as much room as all the pets put together.”

What does the future hold for the Discord crew? Only time will tell. But as long as they can sponge enough money to keep gas in the tank, there’s no limit to where they could be reporting from next week…as long as you let them park in your front yard…and, maybe, use your shower occasionally. Yeah, that would be really cool. Tony’s starting to smell. Oh yeah, and do you have Wifi? This article needs to be sent to Winslow A.S.A.P. or we won’t get our next food allowance.

Flagstaff’s McMillan Pub: the Good, the Bad, and the Zano

Mick Zano

This is a review of a place I already love, but don’t get too excited—that usually means I ask for a set of keys, drink all your beer and then throw an endless house warming party for myself. This pub already evokes both a resounding Hear! Hear!, as well as a simultaneous what the hell were you people thinking! I am either off my bipolar meds again, or watching Colbert’s “Tip of the Hat, Wag of the Finger.” Stay tuned for a glorious rant, done out of love.

McMillan Pub

The Good:

I already like this place, a lot, and I’m an east coaster so for most restaurant reviews I immediately turn into a bitchy kvetchie, hard to please New Yawker. I immediately liked the layout as well as their mixed drinks, particularly their rhubarb old fashioned, but complaints are inevitable because, let’s face it, they’re funnier.

The Pork Shank Redemption: It’s wonderful. It’s really just called the pork shank, but I was just listening to Morgan Freeman narrate something on YouTube so… 

The Chicken Avocado thingie: You don’t call it this, but I misplaced the menu I stole.  Great sandwich, but I agree with Cokie McGrath on this one, it could use some better buns (but, hey, so could Cokie…).

The Branding Iron: A steak, mashed potato thingie. I asked for medium, it was well, but otherwise tasty!

The Chicken and Gnocchi: I loved it, but somehow this made the bad list as well. Stay tuned.

The Hummus and Falafel salad: This is wonderful! But the hummus is sold separately…WTF?! I will leave this in the good column if you promise to merge them together into a package deal. Yes, I added the hummus part to the title, but remember:

“One is the loneliest falafel that you’ll ever do.”

—Three Dolma Night

 

[“I’ve never been to Spanakopita” joke omitted by the editor.]

 

The Bad:

 

The acoustics are lousy. It’s not a concert hall so it isn’t a big deal, but it’s worth mentioning. I don’t know how to fix the acoustics, try to invite more librarians or dining mimes. Just a thought.

The gnocchi of the chicken and gnocchi makes the bad list too. I loved the gnocchi, but five? Really? Five gnocchi? My grandmother told stories from the great depression where you could get six gnocchi, free! …with each purchase of a carrot. The gnocchi were delicious, but they’re not scallops for Christ’s sake, they’re little balls of fried dough…balls of fried fucking dough! …and not of the cash variety.

 

[“Let’s make Gnocchi” joke deemed inappropriate by the editor]

 

The Zano:

 

The beer selection…it’s sooo Scottsdale. If you’re not familiar with Scottsdale Arizona, it’s sooo Hamptons. If you’re not familiar with either of these, you should really get out more.  Let me ‘splain.  Flagstaff takes its beer seriously and we take our coffee seriously…and you have brought us neither!

You must understand, Flagstaff has one fatal flaw: places that serve good food generally don’t serve good beer and vice versa.  We have a myriad of wonderful beer bars, wine bars, and coffee shops, but they’re all strangely devoid of sustenance. Aside from the occasional muffin, I could starve at most of my favorite haunts. To sit down with a nice steak and a kick ass ale is not easy to do, unless you employ the Zano sneak the shit in method (STSIM).

One year before this place opened I prayed each night to the porcelain gods, hoping beyond hope that an establishment would open that serves BOTH fine food and ale. Then I walked over to the tap system and I wept a little. The only IPA on tap was Lagunitas, which is not up to Flagstaff standards. It’s the Budweiser of IPAs, the King of Blahs. Seriously? Lagunitas? If this shit showed up in India via camel, the British troops would have sent it the hell back complete with a rude hump-day joke. They also went with two styles from Borderlands in Tucson, a place I tried to hit during my latest Tucson beer review here. The brewery choice isn’t the problem, it’s the styles: a honey kolsch, a citrusy pilsner, and a sweet porter? That’s fine if you have twenty taps, but six?

Oh, and your service is already in need of an intervention. I’ve notified Mr. Ramsay by posing as your manager…uh, and I called him dick, so batten down the hatches. To put bad service into perspective, Flagstaff is where several pioneers are still waiting somewhere for their sliders. Actually they just opened so I’m just giving them a hard time. I’m sure it’ll all work out and I’ve never personally had a problem. But, then again, I take off an article of clothing every five minutes that I have to wait, so I get prompt service everywhere I go. It’s like magic…because the alternative is anything butt.

The 2nd A-Menument:

 

I ate here again before posting, and they have already implemented a lot of my suggestions! Okay, probably a coincidence, but cool nevertheless.  They’ve already stolen James from Cuvee, one of the best chefs in town, and the falafel salad now comes with hummus! No shit. I didn’t even post this yet… that’s the kind of Zen, Dr. Who-like fictional prowess that I wield! And I spoke with Tyler, the beer manager, and they already have a better IPA on tap, Deschutes Fresh Squeezed IPA. The Brits could have colonized the whole world with this shit…uh, okay, maybe not. The McMillian is also starting to get reserve Belgian bottles of gloriousness in stock and there’s already talk of expanding the tap system and a tap takeover. So far I’ve spoken to Tyler, AJ, Bobby, and James and these guys rock and this place is going to be a fixture in Flagstaff. So now I can fully endorse this place…uh, if you could just lift the whole ‘I’m banned thing’. Look, the waitress incident was not my fault and the men’s room faucet was like that when I found it. And I’m very sorry about the missing painting, but on the plus side it looks great over my mantel.

McMillan Thief, I’m looking right at the camera, but does that stop me? Never!
I’m looking right at the camera, but does that stop me? Never!

Negativity Bias, Interpersonal Circumplexes, and Other Political Psychobabble

Mick Zano

Today we cover more of the psychological dysfunction behind modern day republicanism. Granted, today’s liberals aren’t particularly healthy, but the bigger story remains the GOP’s mega cognitive dissonance (MCD). It’s so thick you can cut it with a knife, but I wouldn’t try that! Remember those stand-your-ground laws? The Discord’s chief psychologist, Dr. Kwela Juluka, will be weighing in so to borrow a line from Fareed, let’s get smarted.

Yes…I keep covering The GOP’s nosedive into a delusional personality disorder, because it’s a big deal. This is a condition with a very poor prognosis, both for those afflicted and their nursing home roommates. I have always felt President Clinton’s impeachment marked the moment when this extremist movement first reared its ugly talking head—a moment in time when one party turned on that fateful Batshit signal, a beacon of wrongness that has shone brightly ever since. The Issa’s of that time, not only doggedly pursued the Lewinsky scandal, but they even tried to implicate the Clintons in the death of Vince Foster. Remember that? Twenty years later and this is their norm. Coincidentally, this is also when Matt Drudge entered the scene:

“Since Matt Drudge launched his website (1997) thousands of news sites have appeared to challenge the official globalist dominated political orthodoxy, its censorship and omissions, and offer humanity a truly more balanced and less bias examination of the world.”

Infowars.com, 7/14

Yes, Infowars, who would put their actual name next to that pile of shit? My assessment of Matt is a tad different:

“Matt Drudge birthed and fomented a sociopathic alternate political reality, the likes of which this country has never seen, and the benefits of which remain as elusive as its contribution to our political discourse.”

—Mick (not my real name) Zano

Chris Mooney over on Slate reviewed a recent John Hibbing et al (University of Nebraska) study on the link between negative bias and conservatism. Essentially this study suggests republicans can hone in on any negative tidbit and incorporate it into their worldview faster than the Flash after a case of Jolt Cola.

So where was this ‘advanced super fear’ (ASF) during the administration that brought us to the brink of ruin? ….you know, when it might have been helpful.

“The conservative ideology, and especially one of its major facets—centered on a strong military, tough law enforcement, resistance to immigration, widespread availability of guns—would seem well tailored for an underlying, threat-oriented biology.”

Chris Mooney on Hibbing et al.

So even though everything collapsed under W, conservative types felt safer with the actions of that administration, however wrong or ill-conceived, because it was more in tune with their faulty wiring (see: Netanyahu’s actions 2014 Gaza). Hibbing’s study suggests republicans have a heightened awareness for only certain types of bad news. They have the ability to immediately hone in on that one tidbit of any given report, poll, trend, policy that supports their ideology, or can easily be twisted into such.  Rightwing media coverage also panders to their fear-based mentality and their need to lash out at anything deemed foreign.

Fox News (FP4F)
Fox News (FP4F) Fear Porn 4 Scared Fucks
Fear Porn 4 Scared Fucks

These traits worked wonderfully in the Pleistocene Era when republicans could deport saber-tooth tigers from their tribal regions with impunity (panther-way to amnesty?).  Sorry.

Make no mistake, 2014 is chock full of concerning shit, but none of the real problems are even covered on Fox News. I also believe liberal bloggers are at least capable of discussing an entire concept. They report a number of facts, pro and con, on any given topic. Sure they highlight the parts that put their views and beliefs in a good light, we all do, but good liberal blogs tend to be data heavy. Take Andrew Sullivan, Jonathon Chait, Paul Waldman, Juan Cole, Kevin Drum, CNN’s Fareed Zakaria and dozens more. The republicans have nothing like them, nothing…well, they had Sullivan (why he moved left, here).

“Paris Hilton has more depth after huffing paint thinner than today’s republicans.”

—Mick Zano (today)

Their ability to shift everything into their worldview (see: Coulterian Flip) is an important part of their confirmation bias, luckily you can reuse such distortions or they would have broken them all by now.  There is some good news, with the GOP’s recent mastery of confirmation bias, normalcy bias, media bias and now negativity bias, they’re well on their way to earning a 10th cognitive distortion free!

This is a hell of a time to check out of the dialogue—or, worse yet, invent a parallel one—when so much is riding on the choices our country now faces. These windows wherein we can effect real change are closing. Who am I kidding? We’ve missed more fucking windows than Stevie Wonder in Amsterdam’s red light district.

On that note, I asked Dr. Kwela to weigh in:

Timothy Leary, long recognized as an LSD guru, was previous to that honor known for his work in Interpersonal Psychology (IP).  In IP, a relationship does not exist within either of any of the parties involved, but rather exists as a separate entity, in essence hovering in the space, or interpersonal circumplex, between the dyad or within the group.  In other words, it takes two to Tango, and if you change partners, you may find yourself shifting instantaneously and unconsciously from the Tango into doing the Rhumba, possibly Break-dancing, participating in a threesome, or even mud wrestling.  The circumplex is mapped on bipolar axes:  A) power, control, status; and 2) warmth, friendliness, solidarity.  If two people find themselves at the junction of the axes, the dance is likely to move to the bedroom (metaphorically speaking); however, if the positions of the parties move significantly away from one another, and especially toward the opposing far corners of the graph paper, bullets may fly (literally).

My take on this, when applied to politics – and particularly conservative politics – is that the right wing has carved out its niche at (or better yet, painted itself into) a corner of the circumplex that we might generously describe as faux dominant truculence.  A dog trainer with such a disposition would have no work and no dog.  A cashier, no cash.  A poll dancer, no grasp.  Those on the right have ignored Kant’s suggestion that we should act as if the principle of our action should be made universal law.  They have scorned Schopenhauer’s observation that compassion is the basis of morality.  They have forgotten (or never learned) the important concepts from the Enlightenment, from which the motivation to write the Declaration of Independence blossomed.  Rather, they have adopted the most primitive linguistic structure imaginable built on a bizarre collection of frothy arcane blips issued by Ronald Reagan, Ayn Rand, and the Taliban.

I must go belch now. 

Dr. Kwela juluka

I suffered from a bout of faux dominant truculence myself, but a gastroenterologist really helped. Actually, I think Sullivan refers to this as Chicken Hawk conservatism a phenomenon only deepening with the unchecked support of Israel’s actions in Gaza. And I immediately thought of the border crisis when you mentioned Schopenhauer’s compassion.  What are the deaths of children on our border if such deaths can be turned to political advantage? Republicans believe some Machiavellian return to power would be its own reward, but what are they basing this on? Certainly not recent history.

Oh, and I thought the term integral psychology was coined by Ken Wilber. Shows what I know. An overview of some other GOP thought distortions, here, and my diagnosing of the Grand Old Party here.

With so few successes, why is the Fox Nation still relevant?

Good question. There remains a strong, albeit misguided, tenacity on the right.  Republicans are united in their hatred for liberal causes, which gives them strength. However, their inability at course corrections is a huge detriment and is, at least in part, why I don’t think the GOP will win the senate in the midterms, even though the odds are currently greatly stacked in their favor. 

Cognitive dissonance used to be limited to their inability to accurately predict outcomes, but now there’s mounting dissonance within their own party.  How do they absorb all of this? The GOP’s candidates are all over the map, yet somehow they remain one Fox Nation. There’s a marked difference between establishment RINOs v. Tea Partiers on economic issues and a monster disparity between neocons v. isolationists on foreign policy, yet, even when republicans are more splintered than Pinocchio’s call-girl, they still manage to hold onto a stronger base than liberals.  See, you lazy hipsters! This is why we can’t have nice things! The only thing you Pabst drinking Portlandians can Occupy is, well, this said it best:

We are Discord!
We are Discord! We Occupy Space
We occupy space

The right’s successful use of cognitive distortions are clearly part of their ‘strategery’. I would back a Rand Paul over a neocon any day, but it’s a moot point; he won’t be their nominee. He doesn’t fit into either the wrong or wronger part of The GOP. He’s a bit of an anomaly.

“One part Rand, one part fiction, they’re a voting contradiction.”

—Aynrandonmous

If Paul somehow does win the nomination in 2016, the republicans will have made a seamless 180˚ transition from Hannibal to Neville Chamberlain, without missing a single victorious news cycle. It’s all part of my Zen Wrongness theory (post soon). But a Rand Paul nomination would signal a huge rebuke to the neocon wing of the party, but it would be a quiet coup, devoid of any recognition of past ills.  Fox is never having to say you’re Stossel. Sorry.

As I’ve mentioned before, you can run a story every day for a decade highlighting every person displeased with their Obamacare coverage, but it doesn’t change the fact twice as many people are happier with their coverage, here, and ten million more are covered, here, and it’s bringing down overall healthcare costs, here and here.  You know, the polar opposite of everything republican’s predicted. This can be broken down similarly for every issue. For instance, a judge just recently ruled that, outside of human error, there’s no widespread voter fraud in the U.S., here, but that won’t stop the GOP from covering each of our estimated .01 instances of voter fraud. It won’t change the final number, but it will dupe some dopes.

I will not deny Fox News is having a real impact on reality. Winning! The Sean Hannitys and the Matt Drudges of the world have successfully wrestled the microphones away from the Cronkites and—

[Megaphony joke omitted by the editor]

You can’t omit my last joke, Winslow!

Dear Mick Zano,

Yes, yes I can.

Pierce X. Winslow, CEO

P.S. And the word ‘joke’ is a bit of a stretch.