Like this for instance: You are not supposed to know that alcohol has zero affect on us. None at all. If you don't believe me, then you can buy me or Mat Catastrophe or Tara Servatius a drink the next time you see us out. Hell, buy us 20. It won't matter. The only thing that gets us drunk is the tears of our enemies.
Two, we get paid by the insult. And I don't mean we get paid for writing them. Nope. We get cash money each and every time one of our loyal readers puts us down. There is also a pay scale. If you call us socialists, that's a Benny. If you call us commie pinkos, that's a Benny Grant. If you tell us to go suck a horse's long ranger, that's a double-Benny and a pack of Herpecin. Score.
Three, we can see the future. Which means that we knew all about that IRS-Tea Party mess like months ago, but we didn't want to ruin the surprise. We haven't told you that Benedict Cumberbatch's John Harrison is actually Khan in Star Trek Into Darkness, and we're not going to start spoiling movies now.
We also know exactly how all of this Benghazi BS is going to shake out. Eric Holder is going to try to commit hari-kari with a broken spork, Hillary Rodham Clinton is going to get promoted to head judge on the Obamacare Death Panel, and President Obama will slip out of the White House in the middle of the night and join Mark Sanford, Rush Limbaugh, and Eliot Spitzer for a Viagra-fueled sex tourist trip around the world. The best part: porn star James Deen and Teen Mom Farrah Abraham will be there to sign autographs and offer tax advice.
Sadly, this ability to see into the future also means that we know what is going to happen when Charleston City Council passes their Late Night Entertainment Establishment Ordinance. And let me tell you, it ain't pretty. There will be lawsuits. There will be blood. And there will be frantic calls to 9-fucking 1-1.
See, according to the Late Night Ord, bars will be required to police the sidewalks in front of their establishments and any parking lots used by their patrons.
Now, if you're like me, you probably think that sort of thing is a job best left to the police, but that's not what Charleston Police Chief Greg Mullen and Mayor Joe Riley think. In fact, the dynamic duo behind the Late Night ordinance believe that bars should be responsible for creating their own poorly trained, uniformed quasi-police force, one that will have absolutely no enforcement powers but will have all the responsibility of enforcing the law. And if the bars in questions don't comply, their business licenses just might get shitcanned by the city.
Don't believe me? Well, here's what the ordinance itself says:
It shall be the responsibility of the Late Night Entertainment Establishment personnel to patrol all areas outside the establishment where patrons queue and to maintain order and pedestrian clearance on all sidewalks which abut the premises of the establishment.
It shall be the responsibility of Late Night Entertainment Establishment personnel to routinely patrol all on-site and off-site areas used for parking by the establishment or its patrons to prevent such areas from becoming outdoor gathering places. It shall be the responsibility of Late Night Entertainment Establishment personnel to clear all on and off-site parking areas within 30 minutes of closing.
All security personnel shall be readily identifiable as such by means of uniforms or other attire.
Now, the first responsibility is fairly reasonable, at least on the surface. A bar or club should make sure that the line entering into their establishment is orderly, but that's more of a common courtesy thing. This is also something that most establishments already do. But that's not the intention here.
What Mullen and Riley want is for the bars themselves to make sure that people aren't congregating outside of a bar on the sidewalk, which is, you know, a frikkin public space. They don't want you and me and our buddy Half-Cocked John Shafttoe chatting outside and smoking Camel Lights. They want Charleston's sidewalks to be free and clear of riff-raff, which in this case is anybody that isn't waiting in line to get into a club or is speed-walking past the nogoodniks on their way to a meal at The Ordinary.
As for the second little bit there, Mullen and Riley's Late Night Ord requires bar staff to patrol all parking lots used by patrons. The bar doesn't even have to own the parking lot. Heck, it doesn't even have to be adjacent to the bar. Bar patrons simply have to use that lot and it's the bar's responsibility. Yikes.
And then there's that third bit there. Can you say Hitler Youth? Just kidding. I will not play the Hitler card. As a newspaper columnist, that is strictly forbidden. We leave that up to politicians and commenters. So have at it.
Of course, none of that is really here nor there. Riley and Mullen's Late Night Ordinance will pass, and soon the sidewalks and parking lots in downtown Charleston will be patrolled by powerless and frightened bar employees who are legally required to tell easily angered gangs of drunk assholes hanging out on the street to go the fuck home.
I don't know about you, but I've read plenty enough police reports to know how that's going to turn out.
Thank you to everyone across the 1st District who made tonight possible! twitter.com/MarkSanford/st…— Mark Sanford (@MarkSanford) April 3, 2013
By now, you've probably heard about Mark Sanford's full page ad in The Post and Courier, the one in which he points the finger at everybody but himself for the recent turn of events that may ultimately derail his comeback campaign.
First, there's his 14-year-old son who was uncomfortable at the Super Bowl party his dad had dragged him to. By Sanford's account that whiny little shit moaned and groaned and cried his little eyes out until daddy took him home.
And then there's the man who threw the party: GOP mover and shaker Chad Walldorf. Evidently, Walldorf's bash was so wicked and depraved that the younger Sanford felt the need to flee. I imagine there were drunkards in lampshade fez hats, comely strip club co-eds offering lap dances for a bit of blow, and pulled pork priests offering pork rind communion wafers and mustard BBQ by the chalice.
And then's there's Jenny. Poor, misguided, undependable Jenny, who refused to take Sanford's call after he had decided to ignore a court order — yet again — that prevented him from ever stepping foot in her house. Why Sanford didn't go to his home in downtown Charleston is beyond me. Maybe he only has a 13 inch black and white TV. Heck, there's a good chance he doesn't even have cable. Only Sanford knows for sure and he ain't telling. But the point is, Jenny should have know that her son was crying and that Mark was just trying to do the right thing. Under no circumstances did he intend to go to her bedoom and rifle through her panty drawer to see if she had purchased any frilly undergarments at the behest of her new paramour. Nope. No way. No how. You know and I know that Mark sat down in front of the TV and cradled his weeping son's head in his lap and watched the Baltimore Raven's celebrate Ray Lewis' ability to escape justice, and he never got up until Jenny arrived.
And then there's the P&C, that no-good liberal rag that has been behind Elizabeth Colbert Busch the whole time. Those bastards are no more than family court peeping toms, sick fucks who stand outside the court house and peer through the windows at readily available public records. Degenerates.
And then there's the ever-noble Mark Sanford, a flawed man just trying to do right by his family and the good people of Charleston. He called. He cared. He tried to sneak out the back door of his ex-wife's house when she pulled into the driveway. But despite his good intentions, he has been pilloried by the press and mocked by the masses. The members of S.C. Congressional delegation either refuse to talk about him to the media or they laugh when his name comes up. (For the former, see Jeff Duncan and Trey Gowdy. For the latter, see Tim Scott.)
Sadly, the only people who seem to be supporting Mark Sanford are self-hating GOPer gals who stand alone on street corners brandishing "Women for Sanford" signs and angry middle-aged chum hubbies who've been tossed overboard into the sea by their mean-spirited, gold-digging ex-wives. This may be South Carolina and all, but there simply aren't enough of those sad souls to get elected. Misogyny will only get you so far.
And so will being a narcissistic asshole who would rather blame his own child than take responsibility for his own actions.
The Dig South fest is now in full swing, and I just got out of a really great session hosted by CNN VP/managing editor Meredith Artley in which she talked about the future of journalism. If you're a journo or a journo-hag, read on. Here's a rundown.
1. The future of online journalism will feature an increased mix of heavy news and lighter fare, the serious and the silly. For an example, Artley notes that in the past it would have been a no-no to run a story about Lindsay Lohan beside a story on the death of Margaret Thatcher, but today and into the future ... well, not so much. Artley also acknowledged that a big news organization like CNN doesn't break news in the way that it used. Although Artly didn't say it, news stories are broken by social media like Twitter and the like.
2. The future is co-created. That means more user-submitted material, and more stories based on what users want. It will also mean that comments and YouTube videos will become more and more important.
3. The future is more personal. Artley believes that news sites will increasingly curate the material on their sites according to the preferences of each individual visitor. Think of it as the Amazon "Customers Who Bought This Item Also Bought" of news sites.
4. The future is more diverse. Artley noted that while that means what we typically think of as diversity — multiple ethnic groups, races, and sexual orientations — but it also means that geo-location (where you live) will mean less and less. More importantly, Artley mentioned that more and more "digital natives" — children who have grown up in an all-digital world — are increasing in number and their habits when it comes to how they digest media, both traditional and social, are here to stay.
5. The future is mobile. I wish I had tweeted this line on my iPhone. I didn't, but I could have.
6. The future is more face to face. Despite all of our tech advances — Facetime, Skype, texting — the more important conversations, work meetings, etc. will be conducted face to face. Why? Personal connections, close contact, matters.
7. The future will have less outrage. I disagree with Artley on this one. Trolls are here to stay. It's a sport. But I do agree with her that comment boards are often self-policed environments where the forces of decency can run the show ... that is if they speak up. Unless you're on Fark. Then you're fucked.
8. The future is more visual. Artley believes that not only is online video here to stay, but it's only going to increase. More importantly, news organizations will increasingly turn to video — particularly animation — to present factoid and data heavy info in more visually appealing and informative ways.
9. And last, the future will be more data filled. The public is going to increasingly demand that news organizations delve into stats and figures and make it all clear to their readers in interesting ways. See No. 7.
In the end, Artley notes that a good story is still a good story and that a good story is what people want. Sometimes they want the important, heavy-hitting news. Sometimes, they want the silly video of the squirrel on waterskis. And more and more, they want it all together in one place. And in the case of Huffington Post — but not CNN, mind you — that means sideboob and nipple slip mini-sites.
Ugh. I mean, I love me some smut, but I don't want my XXX fix mixed with my news. But that's just me. Regardless, I say bring on the future, one wardrobe malfunction at a time.
But Smash Mouth — they're nothing like that. They're just the Guy Fieri of rock, serving donkey-sauce songs to Hawaiian-shirt wearing ding-dong dads who like to chug let's-party-bro beer out of their worn out Vans — which is just another way of saying that they're lovable, like, say, a neutered teddy bear or Kevin James after one too many jagerbombs. (We'll try to forget that one time that he stripped down to his skivvies at Arlington Cemetery and tried to light a fart off of JFK's Eternal Flame.)
Here's the thing, though. I like Smash Mouth. Not a lot, mind you, but I like them. "Walking on the Sun" is a solid '60s-esque throwback with a stanky guitar riff, the kind that makes you want to light up a spliff and dance the Batusi. And even as overplayed as it "All Star" is, it remains a fun-time anthem that's as positively positive as a cheerleader who forgot to wear her bloomers but who isn't about to let that stop her from climbing to the top of the pep-squad pyramid.
And so I welcome lead singer Steve Harwell and the rest of the Smash Mouth gang as they prepare to embark on their Under the Sun Tour, a jaunt across these fair United States with Sugar Ray, the Gin Blossoms, Vertical Horizon, and Fastball. On Fri. Aug. 9 that nostalgia train will pull into town for a stop at the North Charleston Coliseum for what is sure to be a night of bro-volution and spontaneous fraticide.
That said, I fear for the souls of those in attendance. I'm sure you're all decent people, pillars of your local man-cave community, members of the junior-strip club, buffalo-wing sports bar. I hate to say this, but it's time to move on.
I've seen your CD collections at yard sales, how they start with Cracked Rear View and end with the Slim Shady LP. Music didn't die. You did. Or at least you came really damn close sitting in the La-Z-Boy driver's seat of your carpool SUV while the kids in the back watched Shrek the Third for the thousandth time. And as anyone can tell you, the No. 3 outing in the Shrek franchise is a real No. 2.
However, there's still time for you, my friends. Salvation is possible. You don't have to fall victim to the same nostalgia trip as your classic rock fathers. You don't have to be part of a world where your very sanity depends on hearing "Whole Lotta Love," "Sweet Home Alabama," and "Bohemian Rhapsody" at least once a day. There's a world of music out there, music that will speak to your very soul, music that understands exactly where you are in life.
Ah, who am I kidding? That sounds like work, and it's been a hard enough week for you already, what with the boss man busting your balls because you haven't made your sales quota in three months and your wife begging you to watch the latest Katherine Heigl flick and your teen daughter sending pics of her let's-not-even-think-about-it to her boyfriend. The last thing you need is another fucking job.
So to my fellow Smash Mouth loving friend, I say, throw on that oversized bowling shirt for Bon's Big Balls Bowling Alley. Put on those Silver Surfer shades. And pop open a Virginia Slim-sized can of Michelob Ultra, man. You deserve it.
Every time Lindsey Graham rears his little angry turtle head on one of the Sunday morning talkers, the City Paper gets a bump in traffic thanks to the hordes of folks out there who want to know if Lil' Linds is gay. Of course, we don't know if he is or isn't, but we wrote a story a while back examining the speculation that South Carolina's senior senator was "too light in the loafers to fill Strom Thurmond's shoes" — or at least that's how Dick Harpootlian, the homophobic head of the S.C. Democratic Party, put it.
We've also begun to notice a rather curious trend when one of Graham's Senate cohorts is on the tellie. Whenever Sen. Rand Paul is on TV, all of a sudden the Twitterverse is all a-twitter about Paul and his curiously coiffed head. You've seen it, right? It's like Shatner's rug matted with a baby lamb, which means that it's a thing of beauty.
And if there is anything this ugly world truly needs more of, it's beauty. So we've decided to give a few celebrities and VIPs the Rand Paul treatment. If you've ever wanted to see Barack Obama get Randed, read on. (Warning: Piss poor photoshoping ahead.)