David Cameron: We can’t just snap our fingers and fix Britain

What takes 18 months of non-stop media broadsides and bombardment in the United States, usually takes about 18 days in the United Kingdom. Although being a political junkie himself, even the constant campaign mentality and disingenuous partisan overdose forced into our veins wears thin on the werewolf at the end of each presidential election cycle. In a perfect world (no such thing), the werewolf would like to think that the long-in-the-tooth American approach, and the short-and-stumpy British approach to elections could meet somewhere in the middle. A cycle where debates are thorough and genuine, convincing and persuasion of the electorate meaningful, and the urgency of the pending deadline is felt driving appropriately calculating decision. Wishful thinking indeed.

Anyhow, David Cameron, the conservative leader, is set to be the likely replacement for the frumpy, stodgy, and uninspired socialist blob that is Gordon Brown, has penned a decent  "why elect me" piece in the Times of London. While the werewolf prefers David Cameron, he finds Cameron's wishy-washyness on issues like global warming, his bizarre social posturing, and lust for media attention at rate that should even make a politician blush, all legitimate points of concern. However, the U.K. is ripe for a course correction.  All politicians are full of shit to some degree. After this country foolishly swooned over a rotten crock of "hope and change," Cameron's article for all of it's pro forma political bull, has a few decent and worthy sections to it that even impressed the werewolf, oh so slightly.

"So the manifesto we are publishing today is a comprehensive and cohesive plan to change Britain for the better. It will change Westminster and Whitehall for ever. It is a blueprint for reform that is rich in policy but rooted in a core idea of replacing state control with social responsibility.

But it is not a traditional manifesto. We are not saying that we will solve all your problems and, with a snap of the fingers, create a better Britain out of thin air. Because I don’t believe it is in the power of politicians to do this. And in truth, all those phoney pledges and simplistic promises have contributed to voters’ cynicism when it comes to politics."

The people of the United Kingdom have a stark choice ahead. Let's hope they don't screw the pooch as badly as we did in the fall of 2008.

Those damn taxes

The werewolf just filed his 2009 Tax return electronically. Here's a paw-pump for the idiot proof easiness of TurboTax on-line. Here's to lifting his leg and voiding his bladder all over the byzantine and regressive U.S. Tax code. What a brutal and skewed monstrosity. We deserve better, but tragically we'll never get anything commonsensical or equitable from the government when it comes to the income tax code. In fact, the werewolf suspects that this country will have to lube-up and grab it's ankles if an VAT is as real as some suggest.

I am sure you all are going through the some bullshit tax preparation. Good luck and godspeed.  Few things are as soothing as a cold beer or  glass of wine on the flip-side.

The werewolf unmasked.

The werewolf has been semi-inspired by his blog friend and goddess of snark, Legally Fabulous, to give his readers a better idea of who he is, so they don't confuse him with Sean Connery. (He's not nearly that cool or badastic anyways, and he knows he never will be) Plus, in the near-to-mid future, he hopes to start getting more into writing about men's style and how he presents himself to the world so the mask was bound to come off at some point.



Casino Night during his second year at business school. This is the werewolf at his best.

On the at stage at Lonnie's West End.

The werewolf has karaoked in a tux...

Halloween is his favorite. Hail to the King.

At the top of Lion's Head, Cape Town.

The werewolf was drinking Pina Coladas at Trader Vic's, and his hair was...

Original vs. Cover: Save it for Later. The English Beat - Harvey Danger - Pete Townshend

It is a such a beautiful Sunday afternoon here in DC, and the werewolf's acute and chronic self-diagnosed ADD has kicked it. Yet again, he finds himself surfing the endless nothingness that is Youtube for inspiration and meaningless edification.

Being the obscure music junkie that he is, he has often enjoyed comparing and contrasting originals versus covers of some of his favorite songs.  

The English Beat's retro-classic "Save for it Later" is truly an iconic song of the early 80s, at least in the werewolf's skewed opinion. A new video embedding feature has allowed the werewolf to post multiple videos in a single post competently.

Although a purist in most cases, with a built-in bias towards the original, there are a few exceptions where the werewolf can find more or equal virtue in the cover/tribute/re-imaged version of a song. Although in this instance, he still prefers the original version by The English Beat. It should be noted that Harvey Danger  and Pete Townshend put forth worthy and credible covers that both merit a paw pump. The werewolf would love to hear your thoughts.

Here's the original music video from The English Beat. It's a fun video to boot.



Here's the Harvey Danger cover set to scenes from 200 Cigarettes were it was first featured. Fun, solid, yet a tad sophomoric.




Here's the legendary Pete Townshend chiming in with his tribute. It's awesome, especially in the context of a rock titan like Townshend, offering a take on song that is younger than he he is by a few decades, and is also relatively obscure compared to the fame and fortune his career generated.

Bond: Man Talk

Timeless scene from Goldfinger. Gone are the days.

Ahoy, Bruce Campbell

The werewolf somehow missed this nifty ad campaign back in the in day. It certainly ranks close to the Dos Equis "Most Interesting Man in the World" campaign in a mockingly cool kinda way. It's cheeky and cheesy awesomeness are self-evident. Woof!

Postcard from Zimbawe: Meet the new boss, much worse than the old boss

The werewolf has been amused by the New York Times’s rather stark descent from grace, massive loss of credibility, and reliable display of liberal hypocrisy. Occasionally, he find himself glimpsing through the digital pages to see what’s up, but abandoned the New York Times long-ago for the more thorough and journalistically rigid pages found at the Wall Street Journal, Financial Times, and The Times of London. The print version of The New York Times could conceivably be useful should toilet paper run out.

That being said, the werewolf has a love-hate relationship with Nick Kristof, one of the liberal bloviators who regularly scribbles for the NY Times. The werewolf and Kristoff share a deep love and passion for Zimbabwe. That’s the only overlap on the Venn diagram of similar interests and beliefs on the world. Kristof has penned a honest and penetrating assessment of modern day Zimbabwe tilted “Postcard from Zimbabwe.” Here are some potent highlights that speak for themselves

"In a week of surreptitious reporting here (committing journalism can be a criminal offense in Zimbabwe), ordinary people said time and again that life had been better under the old, racist, white regime of what was then called Rhodesia.

“When the country changed from Rhodesia to Zimbabwe, we were very excited,” one man, Kizita, told me in a village of mud-walled huts near this town in western Zimbabwe. “But we didn’t realize the ones we chased away were better and the ones we put in power would oppress us.


“It would have been better if whites had continued to rule because the money would have continued to come,” added a neighbor, a 58-year-old farmer named Isaac. “It was better under Rhodesia. Then we could get jobs. Things were cheaper in stores. Now we have no money, no food.”


Over and over, I cringed as I heard Africans wax nostalgic about a nasty, oppressive regime run by a tiny white elite. Black Zimbabweans responded that at least that regime was more competent than today’s nasty, oppressive regime run by the tiny black elite that surrounds Mr. Mugabe."

Western liberals have focused substantial energy on decrying and challenging the moral legitimacy of white minority rule. There was nothing wrong with per say. Challenging racism is noble, except that these liberals usually turned a blind-eye to the far greater cruelty and abuse that became the norm for so many post-colonial and majority-run African nations. Institutional race-based supremacy and legal segregation are ugly and unjust things that offend the werewolf to his very core. The werewolf is not endorsing the restoration of white minority regimes (although as noted by Kristof, those suffering would welcome their restoration). However, they pale in comparison to the genocide, ethnic cleansing, violent tribalism, and economic crimes committed throughout large swaths of post-colonial Africa. Kristof, is taking an important first step in acknowledging that dichotomy and one of the awful legacies of liberal racism and double-standards when it came to advocating for Africa. Good for him.

The Darkness: Knockers

The Darkness, you may recall, briefly topped the charts about a decade ago, with their catchy one-hit-wonder featuring the lead singer's unreal falsetto, "I Believe in a Thing Called Love." In honor of yesterday's high-beam incident, the werewolf's predictable eternally juvenile side thought this song, about a well-endowed woman, was somehow fitting.

Funny Friday: Stripes - Basic English

Musings, high-beams, and bushy eyebrows.

Today was one of those days that went by quickly with no good reason. It wasn't too busy, it wasn't too slow. What one would assume to be an near ideal pace, methinks. Where morning arrival, lunch, afternoon tea (yes, the werewolf makes himself a Lipton's black tea around 3pm; it's rude to mock what you don't understand), and quitting time were all reasonably spaced and the lull in between never asserted itself in an ugly way.  

Although, he works in a building that is directly across the street for the Capitol South metro stop, on the House-side of the Hill, the werewolf is loathe to ride the metro out of his way when he can walk. He normally uses the Union Station metro stop, which is on the Senate-side of Capitol Hill as his preferred stop on the metro. This means he is guaranteed a nice walk across Capitol, with full vistas of the Supreme Court, the Capitol Building, Library of Congress, and House and Senate office buildings. It is a walk that never gets old. The people watching is a regular spectacle unto itself to boot. Staffers with inflated egos, some with style, others hopelessly drab specimens of humanity. Young interns, old functionaries and party hacks, throngs of tourists,students, all make for added accents.

Today, there was an added distraction to the regular fray. An athletic looking female, about the same height as the werewolf, 5'9, red-headed, with a body toned to near-perfection - not overly muscular, although her stomach was as flat as the deck of an aircraft carrier, with marginal, if any flab elsewhere- was out for a late afternoon jog. True to her athletic disposition, she wore only a sleek black racer-back sports bra, running shorts, shoes, and a sweat band. Here's where things got interesting. Her breasts, smallish, yet perfectly formed C-cups, were bouncing with a rhythmic purpose that matched her cadence in the most seductive of ways. As she closed in on the werewolf and the distance allowed for details to be determined, he noticed she had very pronounced high-beams set on near blinding brightness. (For those of you that do not speak "man-talk," high-beams refer to a woman's erect nipple that is visible through her clothing.) Like two beacons begging for attention, the werewolf's radar locked on these two targets like heat-seeking missile onto the exhaust of a jet-engine. As she crested it past him, his head shamelessly turned his head and he strained his neck muscles to admire this passing siren, and then THWACK! The werewolf, being a total asshole and buffoon, knocked the wind out of himself by walking directly into a parking meter. He missed nailing his jewels narrowly.  As the werewolf yelped and colorfully cursed at the parking meter, a fellow pedestrian rightfully chuckled at the werewolf's expense. After rescanning the area, the ginger-siren had drifted off screen. That sort of sums up how good things have been ending for the werewolf for the past few years.

While at the gym, the werewolf encountered an oddity of a new order. A rotund, pear-shaped older man - who liked like a dorky, civil-servant cross between the uber-dweeb introvert Milton Wadams from Office Space, and Thufir Hawit from Dune - had finished his workout and was grooming himself. Although balding, the man had the bushiest most pronounced eyebrows the werewolf had ever seen on a human. They looked almost like little flattened squirrel tails or something. They were so absurdly bushy and pronounced that the man was actually blow-drying his eyebrows. He had a little comb to brush the moisture out while he was blow-drying them. It was unreal and the strangest thing the werewolf has seen in several weeks. The werewolf was paralyzed by this scene unfolding in-front of him for about 3 seconds, do to the level of bizarreness it encapsulated. 

Exile still sucks, but today had some cosmic humor injected into it.

Genesis: I Can't Dance (live)

Phil Collins and Genesis are just fucking awesome. The werewolf can't emphasize that enough. Seeing them live before he dies –more realistically before they all croak, but who knows what tomorrow will bring– is a serious component of his ever growing bucket list. Anyhow, this appropriately self-deprecating song seems so fitting at the moment. Phil Collins has that classic presence where he is able to properly self-parody, while maintaining his classic rock-star cool. It’s a gift.


As has been mentioned, the werewolf’s tour of duty in Nashville turned him into a bit of karaoke fool at the legendary Lonnie’s Western Room. There are few things the werewolf would embrace with pure alacrity more than an encore tour of Nashville and all of his old haunts. Although he developed a deep repertoire of songs he was willing to desecrate on that small stage, three go-to songs emerged and become synonymous with what to expect during a night of appropriate drinking, honky tonkin’ and karaoking. Beyond being a perennial favorite of the werewolf, “I Can’t Dance” has the dubious honor of being on that list. Watching it done right by Phil Collins and the maestros of Genesis always brings a smile to werewolf’s haggard face.

Bond, Fan Art, and Natural Talent

The rather nifty illustration of Connery era Bond imagery featured above is the handy work of an artist named Lloyd Peek. It was posted on this blog with permission from Mr. Peek and he can be contacted at lloydpeek@hotmail.com if you have any inquiries about other Bond illustrations. The werewolf has never meet Mr. Peek and knows very little about him, other than he and the werewolf share a deep interest and affection for virtually all things Bond. Peek contacted he werewolf via this blog's stated interest in Bond over several different posts. The piece itself does a wonderful job giving a truncated illustration of the Connery Bond era from Dr. No (1962) through Diamonds are Forever (1971). (The werewolf has excised all recollection of Never Say Never Again, as it was produced and distributed on account of cosmic villainy) In the bottom right hand corner we have the first real Bond babe Honey Ryder emerging from the surf of the Caribbean with a conch shell in hand not unlike the mythical live goddess Venus emerging on from the Mediterranean on seashells. In the top left, we have the ironically mysterious and timeless image of Bond arch-nemesis, Erst Stravro Blofeld, sitting in the beige Mandarin-style suit with his sinister white lap cat.  In between, we have the timeless Austin Martin DB5 (arguably the coolest car ever), the lethal-mute butler Odd Job, Willard White's "White House" Vegas Hotel, amongst others images. Although it's not the werewolf's preferred artwork, it's certainly cool and catchy, especially if you're a Bond fan.

This brings the werewolf to a second point about talent. The werewolf has always been impressed with those who have a talent that manifests itself obviously and are able to harness that talent to effective end. Some people are athletes, others artists, musicians, writers, social networking, handymen, or cooks to name a few avenues that talent can be realized. The curtains are drawing to a close on the werewolf's third decade, and he has yet to figure out his talent/niche. Perhaps, there is a talent in being talentless. Having a talent or skill that the werewolf is truly exceptional at still eludes him. It's not that he is looking hard, he isn't. Nor does he need validation. He has made it this far and is very comfortable in his own skin. It's just he wonders if he missing out on anything life offers considering the absence of any obvious talents to bring to the table. His darkly Darwinian side wonders if his lack of a talent is the source of his preference for solitude and speaks to his primordial instinct to be wary and skeptical of commitment(on the flip-side he places an extraordinarily high premium on things he is committed to because he knows and values his word and the notion of commitment unlike most others in society). The werewolf is a lone wolf at heart. As he watches so many contemporaries shackle themselves in the bonds of marriage for all the wrong reason, such as fear of being alone, societal validation or some other imagined social pressure, perhaps finding solace in solitude is a talent unto itself.

Blood letting in the "Rainbow Nation"

Eugene Terreblance, South Africa's vile neo-fascist and white supremacist made famous by his fringe political activity and theatrical antics as the leader of the separatist AWB (Afrikaner Resistance League), was murdered on his farm last week. While he won't be missed by any stretch of the imagination, his murder seems to have been racially motivated and it jolted South Africa into acknowledging the growing trend of race based violence against white farmers. Since this conflict of whites being victimized by blacks doesn't play to the traditional notion of victim and perpetrator in the liberal paradigm, this awful and tragic trend hasn't been getting the attention it merits. Despite the legacy of institutional segregation that benefited South Africa's native white minority during the second half of the 20th century, some of the challenges for South African society moving forwarding include avoiding the Zimbabwe effect of deliberately destroying civic institutions, eroding democratic standards, ethnically cleansing whites; while also continuing to foster a civil-society that values all racial and ethnic groups, but realizes how precarious the situation can be for the key minorities. Post-colonial Africa seems to have it out for minority groups. One need look no farther than Rwanda, Uganda, Kenya, Zimbabwe, and Nigeria to name a few places. Since South Africa transitioned into majority rule in 1994, over 3,000 white farmers have been murdered by blacks. There are other internal crime statistics that are alarming, and it is no secret that South Africa has a plethora of issues it needs to tend to to continue to break the norm and survive as a non-basket case African nation, yet given the extreme sensibilities, the economic repercussions, and the tragic cycle of violence that has claimed so many other African societies, Jacob Zuma and the ANC need to step up and lock horns with this problem.

Some of the best analysis and  insight on the matter can be found here at an excellent blog called Cauthen's Commentary. (Full disclosure, the werewolf was a student of Cauthen's during his undergraduate years at Emory University) Here is a great excerpt offering in-depth analysis of the issue and how music has played a role in the ethnic violence.

"The death of Eugene Terreblanche has trained the world’s attention on the state of race relations in the so-called “Rainbow Nation” of South Africa as well as on a recent ruling of that country’s high court in Johannesburg. Terreblanche – founder of the neo-fascist and khaki-clad paramilitary organization, the Afrikaner Resistance League (known by its Afrikaans acronym, the AWB) – was until recently perhaps South Africa’s most vociferous and violent white separatist who agitated for a racially-exclusive homeland for the Afrikaner ethnic minority. Yet, the news reports of the past few days have focused less on his notorious career and more on his being the latest statistic; indeed, according to the BBC, more than three thousand white farmers have been killed since the inauguration of the new, multiracial South Africa in 1994. Although Terreblanche’s murder does not seem to be politically motivated, but, rather the action of disgruntled farm workers who claim that he cheated them, some of his cohorts in the AWB insist that his demise was the inevitable result of an anti-apartheid anthem and its repetitive lyric of “shoot the Boer.” The historic and controversial ditty had been recently revived and appropriated as a theme song of sorts by the fiery president of the ANC Youth League Julius Malema.  And, after Malema belted out the song at a political rally last month a high court judge, who is white, ruled that its lyrics were unconstitutional as they incited violence against whites and cautioned Malema against any further performances. The ruling ANC was quite dismayed over the verdict as it regards the song as cultural icon of the liberation struggle and sought to have the judge’s decision reversed in a higher court.

Although to some the claim that Terreblanche’s murder was incited by the song may appear far-fetched, in ethnically-riven societies, the catalytic agency of chauvinistic and provocative music to foment individual and collective acts of violence cannot be underestimated. In the lead-up to the genocide in Rwanda in 1994, the Hutu Power regime regularly broadcast songs on the radio which dehumanized the Tutses and justified their extermination. In this regard, I am particularly reminded of a song by Hutu pop composer Simon Bikindi with a similarly repetitive lyric – that of “I hate these Hutus.” In it, Bikindi was not slamming the rival Tutsi but those fellow Hutus whom he regarded as not being sufficiently anti-Tutsi. And, of course, large numbers of moderate Hutus were murdered alongside the Tutses by hard-line Hutus. Bikindi was ultimately indicted by the International Criminal Tribunal for Rwanda on the grounds that he utilized his music to incite genocide – although he was eventually convicted on a different charge."

RIP: The Last Hour of Brooks Brothers in Downtown Los Angeles

Although long and permanently estranged from his hometown of Los Angeles, the werewolf was slightly saddened to read this pensive and reflective obituary of the Brooks Brothers flagship in downtown Los Angeles.

The werewolf knew this particular Brooks Brothers rather well. It will always have a special place in his black heart. It was late during the summer of 1999, a few weeks before the werewolf was set to return to New Hampshire to wrap up his senior year of high school, that he was first formerly introduced to this branch of classic men's clothing retailer. The werewolf's father invited him downtown for lunch at the grill room in the esteemed Jonathan Club (a classic Los Angeles social club that despite a fading reputation and growing detachment from the old-world ethos that made it so worthy, remains one of the greatest places on earth and a perennial favorite of the werewolf's). The werewolf's devotion, affection, and nostalgia for the "J Club" merit a post unto itself one of these days. It also reflected a cherished time of naive innocence and blissful optimism prior to werewolf's estrangement from his family and the jading effect that life's hurdles and frustrations permanently impress upon us took root.

Prior to his retirement, the werewolf's father worked on the 24th floor of 777 South Figueroa, one of the most commanding and attractive sky-scrappers in downtown Los Angeles ,which loosely resembled a tiered wedding cake from afar. On a clear day, it providing not only captivating views of other sky-scrappers, but beyond the nearly infinite suburban sprawl, the occasionally snow-caped mountains east of Los Angeles could be seen when the smog wasn't too obstructive. It always gave one good reason to pause on a clear day. The office building itself was about four or five blocks south of the Jonathan Club, with the storied Brooks Brothers location exactly in between.

It was a beautiful, albeit, slightly toasty summer day in Los Angeles. After parking the faithful old Acura Legend at the J Club and walking down to his father's office because that is how it was done back then, the werewolf recalls the pleasant small-talk walking back to the J-Club to enjoy lunch in the Grill Room. After lunch, the old man informed the werewolf that a jaunt to Brooks Brothers, just down the street, was in order because it was time he had a real suit.

It was the werewolf's first suit buying experience. It was a pretty cool. He had occasionally gone with his father to GB Harb & Son, a old LA tailor-shop, and always admired the sense of style and impeccable fit that ensured from those trips, yet was too young to understand how it could possibly apply to him.

The downtown Brooks Brothers store was surprisingly voluminous and had an expansive series of suit racks accommodating every type of potential customer out there. After long and deliberate discussion with both his father and salesman, the werewolf settled on a two-buttoned, pleated, charcoal gray suit from Brooks Brothers entry-level line. The salesman was impeccably thought and offered what seemed to be prudent advice at the time. There was a brief flurry of debate about pinstripes, which the werewolf's father was wearing that day, but being young, brash, and unsure of his style, the understated universality of the charcoal gray won at his father's aggressive urging. The suit itself was legendary and would endure seven years of hard use by the werewolf before being retired. It survived countless job interviews, two summer internships on Capitol Hill, a brief stint in London, countless student government meetings, several wild parties in South Africa, including one where it ended up, along with the werewolf, in a swimming pool chasing a pretty girl. It was worn so much, that eventually it just gave-out in certain areas - the seems connecting the sleeves to the jack body tore and one of the pockets got caught on something leaving gash in the side of the pants -  although it always fit rather well for on OTR suit, and as the werewolf got older, and lost and gained weight cyclically, it seemed to conform to his body obediently. A white and blue oxford cloth button-down, along with a regimental tie, that the werewolf's father called "a Reagan tie," and busy paisley tie were also acquired that day. Nowadays, the werewolf wouldn't get caught dead OCBD with a suit, but it worked well back then.

Although he never frequented that Brooks Brothers, his seasonal visits to that store and first time suit buying experience will always resonate with him. The werewolf loves a good Brooks Brothers suit, but has evolved to prefer made-to-measure suits form  Samuelsohn or Adrian Jules mixed in with several old-faithfuls from Brooks Brothers.

Having long left LA, the werewolf knows his sadness is slightly illogical and strange. Yet, he can't help but feel like downtown Los Angeles has lost out on some level. Here's to cherished memories.

Iggy Pop: Candy (Live)

Iggy Pop, (a.k.a Iguana) as storied as his odd rock career is, may be one of the strangest and creepiest looking dude's out there. I guess years of heroine, hard drugs, dead hookers and groupies, along with an improbable and illicit lifetime of depression and decadence take a toll. There is something about how the skin loosely collects around some of his muscles, the popping veins, and the way his eyes seem to convey dark tales of a life of twisted debauchery involving things the werewolf is too tame to mention on this blog. Plus, his band looks like a collection of axe murders from a Rob Zombie film, although they certainly rock it to the top. Yet, conversely the way his voice booms tied into his unapologetic bouncing a spastic gyrations, show he is a gifted musician and has earned his place as a great rocker. Not to mention, that chick's life probably was at it's epoch during the three minutes she shares the stage with Iggy.

Anyhow, this is one of the great modern love rock ballads, at least in the werewolf's humble opinion. The optimism that spring brings with it, somehow makes it the season for song's that celebrate love, realized, lost or uncertain. The studio version of this song features Kate Pierson, from the B-52's, which actually make it distinctive and worthy in its own right. Enjoy!

Mexico on the brink?

Tracy Wilkinson of the Los Angeles has a rather detailed and thoroughly disturbing article about how emboldened the drug cartels have become in  Northern Mexico.

"In coordinated attacks, gunmen in armored cars and equipped with grenade launchers fought army troops this week and attempted to trap some of them in two military bases by cutting off access and blocking highways, a new tactic by Mexico's organized criminals."

Is this not reminiscent of scenes out of Mad Max or The Road Warrior on some level? Mind you this isn't some post-apocalyptic Australian wasteland; it is only miles from the U.S.-Mexico border. Could you imagine a world where well-armed highway gangs are successfully going to toe-to-toe with large urban American police forces, or even the United States military without being utterly obliterated? For all of its virtue and splendor, Mexico remains a rather large experiment in Latin American dysfunction. The werewolf is concerned that if these problems aren't addressed and contained in short order, this problem will escalate into a severely malignant tumor along our border with Mexico with wide a wide ranging spectrum of negative repercussions. 

Towns being abandoned under order of death for the inhabitants, honest cops rarer than virgins in whorehouses, an impotent government hanging on by mere threads, with honest people terrorized and lives treated as mere pawns in the vicious games played by the drug cartels for profitable pipelines is becoming the norm in Mexico. This isn't the middle ages or Somalia, this is the Northern Hemisphere and the doorstep to the United States of America. Mexico City's claim to sovereignty grows weaker with each passing day. When will America step up -it will have to at some point- as we can't play the ostrich forever,  and find a General Pershing for the modern era (note it has been almost a century since his infamous foray's against Poncho Villa, who says history isn't cyclical?) and unleash a Marine Expeditionary Force on the repulsive cartels and put an put an end to their trade in misery, blood, and brutality? It's the clear the Mexicans are incapable of handling their own internal security, alas, this burden, like so many others will fall on our shoulders.

Along with waging a violent and brutal war on the cartels, -which honor and justice demand - what changes need to be wrought on this side of the border to undermine these cartels? Is legalization of hard drugs - which appeals to the werewolf's inner-libertarian, yet sits grotesquely uneasy with his moral compass and sense of right, a realistic solution? Whatever the US plan is, it needs to be multi-pronged, fast, a vicious. If this includes adjusting the demand in the states with regulation and legalization regime, along with destroying supply, (napalming cocoa fields), along with showing no mercy to the Cartels as we hunt them down, so be it. However, our chronic impotence on this issue speak to how poorly our society has evolved from days of yore. Like all festering wounds, this must be treating before gangrene sets in and limbs need to be amputated.

HAPPY EASTER, Y'ALL!

A distant, maladjusted cousin to the Easter Bunny.

Paul Simon: You Can Call Me Al

 

Paul Simon's Graceland album always makes the werewolf smile. It is one of his favorite albums during long road trips. "You Can Call Me Al" may be one of the best finger-dancing songs ever written. Seriously. The werewolf has been spied by many a fellow road-warrior finger dancing and singing along in his car like the champ he aspires to be. The carefree beat and fun-loving rhythm make this song so spring-has-sprung appropriate. Believe you me, spring has sprung here is DC. Not to mention the fact that this video features Chevy Chase at his goofy best.

Funny Friday: Three Amigos and Tequila

 

I think we all know that feeling.

Nostalgia: Weezer - Buddy Holly

The werewolf was a mere pup, just beginning to navigate the perilous straits of the 7th grade, when this song was released in the fall of 1994. Although nearly two decades behind him -- with many ragged miles acrued since then -- this song takes him back to the long lost enthusiasm and awkward innocence of junior high. While he is glad those days are long gone, he appreciates what happy and carefree times those were.


Usually the werewolf prefers to share live versions of songs instead of studio recordings or music videos (Assuming a decent live version is available). Live versions allow one to judge a band's talent by how they survive contact with the enemy (the real world) in the absence of the near-perfect and sheltered haven the studio provides. There is no hating the studio recordings as they represent that vast bulk of the music he owns and listens to regularly. However, experiencing a band's ability to jam live is not unlike seeing your romantic liaison in the nude for the first time. You can't fully appreciate the full scope of what you've signed up for until that bridge has been crossed. The werewolf thoroughly enjoys Weezer's studio products, yet, he found them terribly disappointing as a live performance band. Regardless, "Buddy Holly" remains a perenial favorite from the werewolf's youth.

DARK OF THE SUN(1967) Original Theatrical Trailer

Wow. This movie looks incredible. The werewolf read and enjoyed the Wilbur Smith novel of the same name several years ago and wonders to what obscure vault this film has been banished and why.

He is aware that two other Wilbur Smith novels Shout at the Devil and Gold had been ttranslated into obscure films, featuring Roger Moore and Lee Marvin. However, this film has somehow slipped through the cracks of recognition and acknowledgment. It is definitely on must-watch list, even if he has to scrabble to find a VHS version and watch it in some halfway house.

The werewolf finds few tales are as compelling and fascinating as those of mercenaries in post-colonial Africa, imagined or real. Ever since he was a whelp, such tales have played to both his darkest and most passionate musings and aspirations of himself and on humanity. It's been a consistent interest that never chills or gets too hot in intensity. The werewolf has always been captivated by the storied endeavors of Mike Hoare and Bob Denard. Simon Mann, or what's left of him, is someone he would like to have drink with some day.

The Cure: Close To Me (Acoustic)

There is nothing like the The Cure for some easy Sunday afternoon listening.

Iron Man 2: Trailer

Although he enjoyed reading some comic books as a little boy, the werewolf has been profoundly disappointed by most comic books translated into film over the past decade. In fact, he has little interest in most of them anymore. The exceptions being Chris Nolan's rebooted Batman franchise, the refreshingly pessimistic and dark Watchmen (which nobody liked but the werewolf), and Iron Man.

While he did't love the first installment of Iron Man, he found it generally decent and watchable as an experiment in cinematic escapism. Iron Man owes its' acceptability to the infinite and quirky charm of one of the werewolf's favorite actors, the human train-wreck that is Robert Downey, Jr. Beyond having an incredible soundtrack appropriately provided by the grand masters of hard rock, AC/DC, which unto itself causes a loud blip on the werewolf's radar; this new installment features Mickey Rourke, Scarlett Johansson, and Samuel Jackson.

Like Robert Downey, Jr., Mickey Rourke is one of the werewolf's favorite Hollywood fuck-ups. Back in the day, Rourke proved his awesomeness in Diner, The Pope of Greenwich Village and Angel Heart. Sure he has had to reinvent himself almost as much as Madonna over the last three decades, but he pulls it off. From what little the preview shows, he seems well-suited to play some filthy, soul-less Russian villain. Check!

Scarlett Johansson is just incredibly sex-able. The werewolf would go to great lengths to woo and mount her, should the unlikely opportunity ever present itself. Check!

Samuel Jackson has been the werewolf's favorite angry black-man since he saw Coming to America and Pulp Fiction many moons ago. Hence, the werewolf just watches him in hope that he'll pull some righteous "Ezekial 25:17" whoopass on someone.Check!

Anyhow, between the promising music, imrpessive cast, and hopefully some cheese-dick comic book action, the werewolf is not ashamed to allow his inner geek out and line-up for Iron Man 2 next month.

SAABstory on notice

As he has noted previously, the werewolf is stuck in a rather loveless and stress inducing relationship with an uncooperative 2003 silver SAAB 9-3 he has driven for the last seven years. This automotive beast from Scandinavia is known as the SAABstory. He has likened her to a spiteful and vengeful ex-wife that is out to undermine your bank account at every corner, while simultaneously stressing you out, and rattling your cage for perverse shit-and-giggles. She has no remorse, no emotion, no accountability to anything other than the proliferation of headaches and misery on the werewolf. Lately, the SAABstory, clocking in 93K miles, has begun to show signs of leprosy. The air-conditioning and heating motors crapped out last February in the dead of winter leaving the werewolf to rely on the heated seat feature. There is a flaw in the seal of the passenger door causing a small flood on the floor with each rain. The passenger side floor is beginning to resemble the 9th ward of a post Katrina NOLA.  The CD player is beginning to act ticky and skips when it pleases. On principle, the werewolf refuses to bend over and sink scarce cash into this venomous and vindictive bitch, and he intends to drive her into the bloody ground, yet, she has been trying his patience lately. He would hate-crime her her if could, but sadly, the need to have a modus transportation trumps the righteous blood-lust for the time being. Read it here first, the werewolf is like an elephant. He keeps score and never forgets. When granted the ability for just vengeance an on account of the years this loveless and abusive relationship has subjected him to, he will take his many of pounds of flesh!

Obama: Broken promises and diplomatic incompotence

The shifting sands of international relations tend to see relationships defined by convenience and various short-to-medium term mutual objectives. Commerce, trade, defense, technology, mutual enemies, and even shameless posturing on issues such as human rights tend to define short term and mutually agreeable objectives that drive the relations between countries both positively and adversely.  During the Second World War, the United States and Britain shared a bed with the evil Stalin led Soviets to defeat the Nazis. In the 1970s the United States threw some tacit support the way of Red China to undermine the Soviet credibility and cause fissures within the global communist community. The apartheid regime in South Africa shamelessly threw their struggling allies in Ian Smith's Rhodesian regime under the bus, to get the west off their backs on a short-term basis. The fractious behavior of the French and vaginal attitudes of the Europeans in general display how weak the essence of the NATO alliance really is, especially in a post Warsaw-Pact and Soviet era. In the end, like a healthy and successful marriage, finding a truly dependable international relationship that transcends the short-term interests of convenience that normally define global diplomacy, is something sacred that should be be nurtured and cherished. 

There was this great myth pimped during 2008 election that America had a damaged reputation in the world on account of President Bush's robust diplomatic efforts. Certainly, segments of the retrogressive anachronistic European establishment and America's enemies have played this myth up, as their reflexive anti-Americanism would predict. Whatever your thoughts on that may be, and the werewolf treats such claims with skepticism, it is becoming tragically obvious that Obama has become more poisonous for America's international and diplomatic standing, then the previous occupant of the White House could ever hope to have been.

According to the Times of London:

"BRITAIN’S special relationship with the US — forged by Winston Churchill and Franklin Roosevelt in the second world war — no longer exists, says a committee of influential MPs."

The article goes to talk about key domestic pressures and a mild backlash to Tony Blair's stewardship of Britain, yet it is no secret that the Obama administration has displayed a shocking ignorance, retardation, and frankly pathetic sense of tact when dealing with America's closest ally and spiritual forefather. Between returning the bust of Churchill, refusing to hold a joint meeting of state, giving the Queen of bunch of DVDs coded for American electronics along with an iPod loaded with Obama's speeches (vain fucker), and rhetorically undermining the sacred relationship at every corner from dealing to Argentina to speaking about the nature of the relationship itself. The American people are bearing witness to the deliberate and intentional disintegration of one of the greatest historical legacies diplomacy ever known. The severe costs are obvious, yet, the benefits this are completely lost on the werewolf. Like being estranged from your closest family and friends, it saddens him to realize that America be cast adrift from the only relationship that potentially transcended the bullshit of normal inter-state relations to fill the myopic left-wing ignorance of the current POTUS. (Canada, Australia, and New Zealand also fit in this mold, but they are lesser players.) Although not without itself nuances and challenges; few things can beat a common language, legal heritage, diplomatic and historical ties forged in the heat of the greatest wars ever fought, along with key cultural compatibilities make the USA-UK something worth preserving and fighting for.

If someone can explain the contrasting upside to squandering this other than to please ignoramuses of the left, please make the case. 

Is it really Saturday?

Despite being a tad nippy outside, it's a rather a stunning Saturday here in the District. The sun is shining and the cherry blossoms are beginning to emerge. As the werewolf drove into work this morning, he was briefly mesmerized by the wonderful spectrum of color provided by the throngs of kites be flown on the national mall. He regrets not being able to snap a picture, as it made for a fantastic visual. He was also infinitely amused by the ragged looked human derelict on a beat-up old bicycle who had an 1980s era battery operated ghetto-blaster strapped to the frame, blaring some sort of heinous rap, as he wove in and out of semi-gridlocked traffic. The werewolf appreciates humanity in the raw on occasion.

 Although still busy, this week was far more sedate than his first week in DC. The werewolf was able to be semi-social on one occasion this week. He was reintroduced to an understated and agreeable pub near Dupont Circle known at The Darlington. Not too snobby, nor too dingy, reasonably priced, with an acceptable variety of spirits, it has the making of a venue where the werewolf can imagine himself holding court on occasion. It was an interesting night, because the werewolf discovered a new spring appropriate beer, Leinenkugel Sunset Wheat; crisp, refreshing, with a hint of fruit, it is very easy to drink by the pitcher. It’s similar to Blue Moon, but doesn’t feel as heavy. The lascivious vixen from a fortnight yore also serendipitously entered stage left for a portion of the evening. Since it was a weeknight, and work was on the agenda early the next morning, no tomfoolery ensued. However, the werewolf will never complain when a pretty young fox enjoy his tipsy musings at agreeable venues.

 It’s a Saturday afternoon, and there a dozen better places to be sniffing around than being online, so the werewolf is off to capture what is left of this weekend.

Funny Friday: Bush wipes handshake off on Clinton's shirt

The werewolf approves.

Perdicaris alive or Raisuli dead! - The Wind And The Lion (Original Trailer)

As he cryptically suggested a few weeks ago via this post, The Wind and The Lion is perhaps the finest film the werewolf has ever seen that captures the essence of American exceptionalism and entrance onto the global stage as a power player. The werewolf never truly understood why John Milius’s 1975 adventure classic never made it big as the iconic American classic. let's not fool ourselves, it is without question the epitome of cinematic awesomeness. If the werewolf were a history teacher (something that may not be to far off in this economy), this film would be required viewing for his poor students.

The film is an adventure classic of the highest order. Take 2 parts Barbary pirates, 2 parts innocent American ex-pats, 1 part U.S. Marines, a dash of scheming and ruthless European imperialists, a twist of decadent Muslim sheiks, a whole lot of exotic Moroccan landscapes, and throw in 2 parts of  Teddy Roosevelt in the raw for good measure, shake it up and serve on a screen. On those merits alone, it rates highly. Now imagine Sean Connery, Candance Bergen (in her pre-Murphy Brown prime), Brian Keith as Teddy Roosevelt, and the man with the greatest voice ever, John Huston, as Secretary of State John Hay. Like a classic cocktail mixed to perefection, you will not be disapointed by the cinematic brilliance that ensues.

Guilty Pleasure: Wang Chung - Dance Hall Days

Do you have a song you absolutely adore for no good reason? I do.

Wang Chung is a very decent (the best of era defining mediocrity that is) 80s new wave act. They have a few recognizable notches on their belt and they managed to land the score to William Friedkin's superb crime saga, To Live and Die in LA. They are one those forgettable one-hit-wonder bands, that have that one song the werewolf loves unconditionally. However, he would refuse to see Wang Chung live (hopefully they've long since retired) on account of the fact that their intrinsic mediocrity may ruin his cherished, if not inexplicable love affair with "Dance Hall Days." He likes the relationship just the way it is.

"Dance Hall Days" makes the werewolf bounce. It's his happy song. The ultimate guilty pleasure pick-me-up. Not unlike real key lime pie. If he is out, prowling about, and has been properly lubricated with alcohol, this song has been known to prompt him to grab a female in close proximity and start dancing like shameless goof. Or to just start bopping like the jackass he is known to be at times. He always liked the horn section and sax portions of this song. Like crushing on the nerdy chick, it's the favorite song he'll never list because it is so out there compared to his other preferences. Here's to savoring those inexplicable guilty pleasures that add-value for no apparent reason.

David Bowie: Rebel Rebel (live)

As mentioned in an earlier post, the werewolf is convinced that David Bowie just gets better with age. Here's one of his best songs.

A week in review

The werewolf apologies for being a truant blogger. So much has happened this past week. The transition from having an abundance of free-time to managing a scarcity of it has adversely impacted his blogging. Much to his eternal dismay. It's about half past eleven on a Friday night, and the werewolf finally has enough time to try and pound out an overdue post.

The weekend looks to be as chaotic as this past week was. Tomorrow morning, in true Kosavarian refugee style, the werewolf packs up his meager possessions into the Saab-story, and moves from downtown DC, to a small, but tranquil neighborhood in a northern pocket of DC. He's renting a furnished room in a rather nice, if not slightly cluttered house, from this strange older lady with bohemian inclinations, who has two cats for the next few months. (The werewolf believes that dogs are man's great ally in this struggle called life, and has absolutely no utility for cats. Plus, he is inherently skeptical of women with cats.)

As much as he loves crashing on his dear friends' couch, with all of the gourmet food, regular consumption of alcohol, the inclination toward tomfoolery, good company, and great location; being the third wheel attached to happily married couple in a small, but charming, urban loft isn't conducive to healthy long-term outcomes of one the most cherished relationships a werewolf can have. The move will get interesting because tomorrow is the Washington, DC marathon, and all easy routes from point A to point B are obstructed.

However, there is an additional hiccup to the weekend. The werewolf has been asked to work eight-hour shifts on both Saturday and Sunday. This doesn't bother the werewolf in the slightest, as he is prepared to work his paws off and the work being done is on the front line of the trenches of the upcoming health care vote in the House of Representatives. (It's grim looking folks, the dastardly dems are within inches of marshalling the needed votes to ensure we are on a road to serfdom.)  Since arriving in DC, the werewolf hasn't really had a chance to catch his breath properly. It looks like it will have to wait until next weekend. That being said, the shift from stale idleness of unemployed exile to frenetic overwork is embraced with the alacrity and joy of being reunited with your favorite lover.

The job is interesting. The werewolf works as a staff member for the political communications arm of one of the Republican congressional campaign outfits. The hours are long, 8am to 7pm, on a good day. But the days have yet to drag. They actually fly by much quicker then the werewolf's old days in the insurance brokerage or as vassal in the tobacco castle. There isn't a moment that has gone by this week with out the screaming chorus of buzzing phones, floods of emails, pressing deadlines, and such. Oh, the joys of a political press operation. While exhausting, it's good place for him at the moment. Plus, it's quite the cast of characters with whom he works. Expect some forthcoming posts about the girl whose laugh sounds like a warthog being gassed, the Kardashian wannnabe, the congresswoman who won't stay on script, and the mysterious soup filled crock pot that pops up in the oddest places.

That's all at the moment. Please bear with me as I get my ducks lined-up. In the meantime, have a great weekend.

Funny Friday: Pearls of Wisdom?

The Police: Man In A Suitcase (live)

Unlike certain fine wines, the Police did not get better with age. That doesn't discredit the occasional hit they produced during their later years, nor is it an attempt to impugn Sting's strange, yet occasionally decent solo career. Quite simply, they just happened to produce their best stuff during their first act. Their Zenyatta Mondatta album and its edgy blend of punk, reggae and new wave is unreal and never ceases to be a great listening experience. "Man in A Suitcase" may be the best Police song you have never heard before given all of the self-pitying strange musical experiments, like "Every Breath You Take," that seem to anchor their reputation by today's flaccid standards.

It's been an interesting few weeks for the werewolf. Last week he rejected the gradual stagnation of exile in suburban New York and relocated to Washington, DC, to pursue an opportunity in politics. Exile is still far from over.

The werewolf is grateful that his best friend of many a year, the Legal Beagle, has a loft in Chinatown and has allowed the werewolf to crash on the couch for the time being. A fringe benefit has been being spoiled by the Legal Beagle's gourmand wife, as he just watched her pack his lunch for tomorrow. It'll be hard to leave both the good company and excellent food that the Legal Beagle's yuppie domicile provides. Valuing relationships and nurturing credibility have been some of exile's key takeaways thus far.

This weekend will mark a strange new chapter in exile as the werewolf sublets a room in a house from a old hippyish, cat lady. They say life comes at you fast sometimes. No shit. The price is right for the time being and it gives the werewolf the ability to chase his dreams. Even though he will literally be a man in a suitcase for the next two to three months.

The abrupt move to DC has done wonders for his confidence and sense of self-worth. In some ways, the werewolf is beginning to reconnect with his long lost mojo. A prized characteristic he thought had atrophied months ago.

To celebrate his moving to DC, the werewolf allowed himself out of the cage and behaved as if the moon was full this past Saturday night. Although rusty and a tad humbler than before, he is pleased to announce that he hasn't lost his ability to be pleasantry pleasantly reckless and wild under the right circumstances. Someday he hopes to recount the improbable debauchery that ensued.

Yesterday was the first day of his transitional political job. It went well. The next few months will require some ball-busting labor, humble, but hungry attitude, and an appetite for risk. But for the first time in a long while, the werewolf feels slightly human. A-hoooo!

Intergalactic twits.

Some people have no shame. Really. While the repulsiveness that is John Edwards is abundantly clear, there is something really creepy about his new age psycho love bunny Rielle Hunter.

From the recently published GQ expose on this tired and sordid affair, Rielle advocates her own version of crazy like a champ.

"Why do you think he loves you?
 
Um… How do I answer that? [long pause] I mean, I could give so many answers. I could give a spiritual answer, that I reflect back to him large parts of himself that were unconscious. Like, he's a huge, huge humanitarian. He is very kindhearted and sweet. He's very honest and truthful. And all of that was hidden."

Funny Friday: Charlie Murphy's true Hollywood stories. Rick James Pt 1

This clip sling-shots the werewolf straight back to the reckless innocence and sincere humor that guided him through college. The Dave Chappelle Show was all the rage back in the day. It enjoyed true success on the merits of its hard hitting humor. Like Chevy Chase, Bill Murray, Eddie Murphy, from days of yore, Dave Chappelle used to be hilarious. Why is it so seldom that great comedians can keep their edge?

John Carpenter's Vampires Soundtrack - Cruel Highway - Looking Back

A song's ability to transport one back to a specific time and place can be be remarkable. Pictures can occasionally do the trick, but they can trigger different reactions as well. "Look at how thin she was back in the day," "wow, who knew you has such a thick head of hair," "those are the goofiest glasses," or "that's not you in the flannel shirt, is it?" Sometimes the right song unleashes a torrent of recall that transcends the imagery we occasionally get hung up on and recreates the atmosphere and emotions of a time. Bypassing nostalgic bullshit helps paint a more honest picture of from whence we came.

This most random song selection from John Carpenter's Vampires (a B-movie enjoyed by the werewolf) yanks the werewolf back to the winter of 2000 in New Hampshire. The maverick McCain had just captured the primary in that small state from GOP heir apparent George W. Bush. An inch or two of dirty snow on the ground defined the daily walk to class. The blistery winter wind had edge to it that the werewolf's inner-Californian never truly accepted. Uncertainty loomed. What college would he be bound for in a few months, was he really in love for the first time, what the hell was waiting ahead?

Specifically, this song brings him back to Christine Robinson's senior English seminar in a musty basement classroom in Phillips Hall. Exeter was famous for old buildings with worn down and scuffed stair cases and that constantly served as a reminder of the legions of students who had proceeded us. Exposed pipes, old bricks, no windows, and an ancient chalk board were all defined accents of that room. The crusty old lesbian ran a thoughtful classroom. Even if she didn't shave her armpits, she knew how to get you to think about what you read and tried her damnedest to make better writers of us all. No easy task when it came to the obstinate werewolf.

Specifically, he recalls an involved discussion about Quentin Compton's suicide in Faulkner's haunting novel The Sound and the Fury. It was one of the grimmest, darkest, and oddly thought-provoking classroom discussions the werewolf ever participated in. Later, a veteran and friend from the werewolf's time in Richard Morante's infamous Latin class, who was also an active participant in the aforementioned discussion, took his own life. The werewolf has been unable to pick up The Sound and The Fury since that dark day.

Being an open, liberated lesbian, Robinson would occasionally get a tad preachy and talk about famous gays to make her feel like some sort of important social change agent or whatever. Being a Los Angeleno, the werewolf recalls an odd conversation where she brought up gays in Hollywood. She asked the class to name famous gays and lesbians. Being a fan of older films and film history; Rock Hudson, Roddy McDowell, and Raymond Burr all came to the werewolf's mind and he blurted them out. She then added "did you know Errol Flynn was gay?" The werewolf said something to effect that he didn't care to know who was gay as long as John Wayne, Lee Marvin, Steve McQueen, Sean Connery, Cary Grant, and Charleton Heston continued to be Hollywood bad-asses and weren't going to be subjected to some-sort of revisionist rewrite of history that would diminish their respective legacies. Talk about a conversation killer.

Lastly, the werewolf recalls reading Othello in that classroom and actually snapping at a female classmate who kept referring to Othello as an African-American. It wasn't the first time he saw the pernicious impact of political correctness corrupt a talented mind's ability to judge history, but it was one of the more memorable instances.

Oingo Boingo: Just Another Day

This is one song where you will want to turn up the volume. Trust me.

Growing up in Southern California, it's hard not to be an Oingo Boingo fan. I vividly recall the preferred rock station of my teenage years, 106.7 KROQ, hosting the occasional Oingo Boingo Halloween special featuring their most well known hit, "Dead Man's Party." The werewolf always loved their provocative and somewhat shocking "Little Girls."

Only recently has their talent on stage become apparent to the werewolf. Sadly, the band is permanently out of commission on account their lead singer's partial hearing loss. Tragic. At least clips like this can do their legacy justice for the unenlightened such as myself.

Massive change (not of the Obama variety) is afoot for the werewolf over the next few days. There is something oddly appropriate about this song that he finds comforting. The lyrics from the opening stanza have been running through his head since this weekend.

I feel it all around / I feel it in my bones
My life is on the line / When I'm away from home
When I step out the door / The jungle is alive
I do not trust my ears / I don't believe my eyes
I will not fall in love / I cannot risk the bet
Cause hearts are fragile toys / so easy to forget

The Wind and the Lion - American ascendancy and exceptionalism

Stunning and epic. This incredible scene from The Wind and Lion never ceases to amaze.

Finally, The Academy gets something right.

The Hurt Locker, a film seen by very few people, did deservedly well at the Oscars last night. This simple fact made the werewolf sit on his haunches and allow for an uncharacteristicly long smile. Here is an excellent piece by Nile Gardiner at The Daily Telegraph that articulates the virtues of why this win is worthy. 

It was during high school that the werewolf realized how fakakta the Academy really was when the vapidly pleasant Shakespeare in Love usurped the profound and epic Saving Private Ryan for best picture. He's been a raging skeptic ever since. He was glad that Avatar was rightfully overlooked, as it should have been. It is the small things that make us smile sometimes.

Joe Strummer: Bhindi Bhagee

Joe Strummer, the former front man and lead singer for the famed rock experiment The Clash, doesn't get enough credit or attention for the work he did during the twilight of his career. The werewolf isn't sure what gives with that sad fact. Unlike other musicians who fail to reinvent themselves successfully or allow themselves to fade into the shadows of obscurity, he adores Strummer in all of his iterations. Sadly, Strummer was taken from us prematurely. Bhindi Bhagee is an incredible rock ballad about take-out food in London. The energy and story telling is simply grand. Although he doesn't listen to it often enough, this song never fails to cheer the werewolf or get his feet tapping. Here is the studio version. Enjoy!

Mickey Kaus: A Democrat the werewolf can get behind

Investors Business Daily has an interesting little blog blurb about Mickey Kaus's nascent senate campaign in California. The fact that thoughtful and unorthodox Democrats actually exist is a good omen. Kaus fits that mold beautifully. He is certainly a liberal in several regards and on substantive issues. What makes him unique in the modern political sphere is a respect for fact based metrics, an inherent contrarian streak that questions blind political hackery, and a understanding that the world is governed by several changing dynamics that static political positions can not effectively manage. Here's an inspiring excerpt:

"You don’t have to be a wild-eyed libertarian to realize something is very wrong with that. But, as Kaus points out, “You can’t find a Democrat politician criticizing the teachers unions.” That silence is hurting the liberal cause. “Unions are what make affirmative government unpalatable,” he said."

The werewolf is no Democrat, and finds many elements of modern liberalism intellectually appalling and a righteous cause for severe indigestion. He thinks Barbara Boxer is an ignorant slut at best and a vile, bigoted and condescending brutish genderless left wing wacko who deserves to contract some putrid STD at worst. He despises her as much as one can. She is the worst creature that modern politics breeds.

Still, he thinks it is important for the long term health of the republic to erode strictly partisan assumptions and practices as a norm. Plus, how conservative would a GOP senator from California really be, and wouldn't greater value be added via an honest and renegade oriented Democrat in terms of getting that leeward party to question itself at times?  Also, the werewolf is unsure of how he feels about Carly Fiorina given her topsy-turvey tenure at H-P and finds Tom Campbell more appealing at prima fascia. That means his preferred candidate has a snow-balls chance in hell of making it through the general if he clears the primary. However, that is a fluid observation subject to change. Mickey Kaus offers a promise along those lines. In many ways, he can be the liberal version to the straight-shooting contrarianism of Republican senator Tom Coburn of Oklahoma. That seems like something this country could use at the moment. Thoughts?

Echo and the Bunnymen: Lips Like Sugar - Live

Echo & The Bunnymen have been a perennial favorite of the werewolf since he stumbled onto them during college. That discovery was courtesy of one of history's greatest footnotes, Napster. What a find it was back in the day. He felt like Cortez stumbling upon the legendary Aztec city of Tenochtitlan and realizing the potential for something great. The song that pulled him into their orbit was actually the eerily addictive and chilling The Killing Moon. Echo & The Bunnymen served as the gateway that introduced the werewolf to the joys of Gary Newman, Peter Murphy, Tubeway Army and Joy Division along with the uniquely distorted electric sounds associated with the early 80s.

The song is great for other reasons. It tells the tale of that unattainable wench who steals our heart, drives our imagination wild in the most lascivious of ways, knows her power over us and leverages it as she tempts and teases with the sadistic cruelty normally reserved for a Spanish Inquisitor, while never allowing us the chance to follow through. You all know the type of women to whom I refer. Yet, we convince ourselves that the pay-off of enduring her torture is that her "lips are like sugar." What fools we men can be when it comes to allowing the fairer sex have imaginary dominion over us at times.

This song is on the karaoke bucket list. It'll take a bucket or two of beer to execute

Bond Title Sequence: On Her Majesty's Secret Service

To those that know him, it is no secret that the werewolf is an enthusiastic Bond fan. When he was a whelp, the werewolf's parents made the wise decision to allow him to watch all of the Bond films he could tolerate. Not only did this inform a young werewolf's sense of style (Connery), reinforce his love for the ladies, and cement his anti-communist credo, but it made him a wonderful and young jerk with an attitude. By the age of six or seven, the werewolf had committed most of the Bond films to memory, including the skiing scenes in On Her Majesties Secret Service, A View to A Kill, For Your Eyes Only and The Spy Who Loved Me. Based purely on the fact that he had watched Bond ski in four different films, the young werewolf was convinced that he himself could ski. Looking back on it, I can't think of a more ridiculous, arrogant, or asshole way to conduct myself. Needless to say, after a spectacular wipe-out, the werewolf whelp was ready to abide by his mother's advice and take skiing lessons.

Over the years, the werewolf's consistent love for the Bond franchise has manifested and matured in different ways including several failed attempts at romancing worthy young women with crass and crude one-liners. Alas, those tales merit a different post.

The werewolf has often felt that On Her Majesties Secret Service is the most under-appreciated Bond film. This isn't an attempt to glorify George Lazenby, he still sucks. Rather it is a testament to the film's captivating plot-line, which is unusually strong for a Bond film, along with the sensational beauty of Dianna Rigg (the werewolf's all time favorite Bond girl), and the clever villainy of  Telly Savalas as Bond arch-nemesis Blofeld. The music in the score along with Louis Armstrong's contribution of "We Have All the Time In World" are unreal. Anyhow, the werewolf loves the inter-franchise historical highlights captured in this Bond films opening sequence. Thoughts?

The werewolf interviews

One of the things the werewolf intended to write about when this blog was quickening, was the style and haberdashery of the modern man. (It's unoriginal, I know, but they say write about the things you like and know about.) To be charitable, the werewolf can be described as a rabid clothes hound with an insatiable appetite for classic tailored clothes and styles. He fancies himself a bizarre blend of trad, preppy, and country gentlemen when he is at his best.

The attempted look was the understated financial services professional seeking to blend in, yet knows how to dress. The suit is an two-buttoned, medium shoulder padded, single pleated, made-to-measure charcoal gray Adrian Jules from the now defunct Michael Christopher in Atlanta; the shirt is a light blue herringbone with french cuffs and a spread collar from Robert Talbott, the tie is standard navy and red Hermes; the cuff-links are hunting hounds from England; and the shoes are black Johnston & Murphy cap-toes that the werewolf acquired during his first internship on Capital Hill in 2001(They are faithful servants on their second sole).  During the end of business school and throughout exile, I have lost a little weight causing some billowing in the shirt, yet somehow, I look like a chubby-fuck in those pictures. I would love any input on the look, as I am constantly trying to improve and I fear exile has dulled my sartorial senses.

Anyhow, last Thursday, the werewolf was in Washington, DC, interviewing for a management consulting position. For the record and despite being an Vanderbilt MBA, the werewolf wants it to be known that he harbors a healthy skepticism for lawyers, investment bankers, and management consultants. (The werewolf recognizes and embraces the value that the aforementioned trades bring, but the consensus of their alleged collective greatness stokes his contrarian flames on multiple levels, plus consulting promotes the wearing of black suits, a hell-bound and unforgivable style sin in the werewolf's book) He'll think of something pithy to have engraved on his headstone that captures the aforementioned sentence and his strong emotions on the subject.

Back to the interview, for whatever reason, something about the interview had the werewolf profoundly nervous and agitated the few days prior. It was some sort of uncharacteristic lapse in confidence that was a first for him. Perhaps it was the fact that the quiet desperation of exile has him considering career options he vowed never to pursue and that breaking his own internal code of honor for all the wrong reasons just causes indigestion. He conquered his internal defects and rallied to put his best effort forward. In retrospect, The werewolf gives himself a B for his interview performance. He didn't royally fuck-up, yet, yet he didn't knock the truck window out. Quick overview, the werewolf had two interviews with senior managers in the firm, both lasting about an hour. The first interview was with the chief of research officer, a nice and smart guy, who had the attitude of a failed academic. It was lively discussion; there was were a few small case questions bandied about, however, the interviewer fixated at the werewolf's three years as an insurance broker, and was obsessed with trying to get the werewolf to confess that there is no longer a value-add in that important financial service. Rest assured, the werewolf didn't buckle. The second interview was the head of new product development. The guy was nice enough, but had a sever head cold, and was doped up on some sort of cocktail of DayQuil/NyQuil because he asked the werewolf the same question three different times throughout the interview and kept being intrigued by the same answer. Plus, his runny nose and glassy eyes were distracting. That's the quick wrap on it all.

The company itself was a tad sterile and stodgy. However, they must have had an unwritten policy that dictates recruiting tall attractive women from the volleyball teams of elite universities. While waiting in the reception area, three exceedingly lust-worthy women who exceeded 6ft in height, floated down the marble floored hallway with the sound of their clacking heels heralding their approach. They all had that bitchy and entitled "I know I am hot, asshole" look about them bred exclusively in elite universities. The werewolf was proud to be caught by the second one in one of those head-turning scope the chick's best features as she walks by moves. Sometimes, discretion is overrated.

Funny Friday: Cousin Eddie

Speaks for itself.

Jacob Zuma: Barbarian Extraordinaire

Will Heaven over at the The Daily Telegraph penned a great article regarding Jacob Zuma, the current president of South Africa. The article speaks truth-to-power about what a putrid schmuck Zuma is on all levels. At his very best, Zuma is ignorant firebrand who was active in the ANC's militant struggle to usurp apartheid. At his worst he is a retrogressive, rapist, thug, and hard-line left-wing nut-job who can't even claim to have finished high school. South Africa is in the very best of hands. Beyond being a decent political manipulator, he has shown no aptitude for anything noteworthy. The werewolf was in South Africa when the oh-so classy Zuma was on trial for raping the HIV positive lady, and having claimed that his post-rape shower negated his chances of contracting the virus. What a guy. (If it wasn't so real, it'd actually be amusing) The werewolf gave a little paw-pump when he thought Zuma had been effectively sidelined. Alas, it was premature. Here are some highlights from Mr. Heaven's article:

"Well, as Graham Boynton writes in today’s Telegraph, Zuma’s has faced a host of criminal charges during his career in the ANC: fraud, racketeering, corruption, and tax evasion to name but a few. He has so far escaped conviction, but in one of the most revealing episodes of his career so far, he was accused of raping an HIV-positive family friend in 2006.

Zuma, as has so often been the case, was acquitted. But during the trial he infamously admitted to having “showered” after unprotected sex with the woman because this “would minimise the risk of contracting the disease.” He knew the woman was HIV positive, but told the court that while he normally used condoms, he did not have one available on the night of the incident. As one Aids campaigner said at the time, “statements like that can throw years of hard work down the drain.”

A year before his rape trial, Jacob Zuma was head of the National Aids Council and South Africa’s Moral Regeneration Campaign. Is it surprising, then, that with a brute like this in charge, some six million South Africans are infected with HIV/Aids today? Zuma has even invoked traditional African culture as an excuse for not using condoms. A ludicrous idea on the face of it, but when you consider that an estimated 800,000 South Africans died of Aids in 2008, the true horror of Zuma’s influence begins to hit home." 


Zuma is a shining example of one of Africa's largest hurdles to prosperity and decency. The lack of a stable and respectable ruling class. As long as African democracy, autocracy, and governments elevate brutal thugs who ride the cresting waves of anti-western drivel, celebrate ignorance, and promote discredited economic management, Africa will stumble around like a blind drunk at an open bar, continuously being unable to be taken seriously. That in turn will retard efforts to address the public health, economic development, and global integration concerns that plague Africa. At this point, it is up to Africans to help themselves. Yet, with titanic buffoons like Zuma representing the best of African democracy, Africa will be riding the global short-bus for many moons to come.

The Cars Live: Bye, Bye Love

The Cars are one of those iconic 80s bands that don't get the credit they fully deserve. The werewolf remembers being a little boy and thoroughly enjoying "Moving in Stereo" and "Best Friend's Girl" on the radio. This live version of "Bye, Bye Love" showcases the innovation inherent in their music. Plus, what's not to love about the collection of rockin' mullets?

This song also makes the werewolf wonder something about the fairer sex. Why are certain women like bad luck pennies? They keep turning up when you need them least.
 

Back to Exile

The werewolf is back in suburban New York City after a great run with the highly competitive state house race in northeastern Texas(Today is ELECTION Day). Campaigns can be a great time, really. They keep you on your toes and have refreshing energy about them.

It is a strange sensation going from 0 to 60 back to 0 in quick succession. The thrill of being actively engaged and having purpose invigorates one's soul in the best of ways, especially after an extended period of involuntary idleness. However, just as quickly as the sense of purpose is satiated, a terrible vacuum and refreshed emptiness reestablish themselves. Right before he left for Texas, a series of positive developments had occurred on the job prospect front for the werewolf, or so he thought. Several first round interviews were conducted in mid-February for a variety of jobs ranging from the publishing industry, to nonprofit, to management consulting.

In an odd twist of fate, the werewolf will be proceeding to a second round interview with a management consulting firm later this week. The irony at hand is that this was the most competitive of the job vacancies that the werewolf has applied to lately, the one he thinks he is the weakest fit for, and also the toughest one to secure. He is still a long way from securing it, and the case interviews scheduled for later this week have him deeply unnerved for a variety of reasons. (Unlike normal behavioral interviews, case interviews run a gamut of possibilities and can be highly combative and intense) Yet, it also begs a fundamental question about how the labor market operates, how we find our fit within it, how to manage our expectations for ourselves and how to nurture ambitions.

Hopefully, a broader portrait of opportunity will be painted over the next few weeks and more call backs will occur. In the meantime, here's to trucking away and turning lemons into lemonade.

Nostalgia: Army of Darkness Trailer

God Bless B-Movies! Between heavily influencing pop culture via its plethora of one-liners, representing the pinnacle of Bruce Campbell's acting career and launching director Sam Rami's , and being a damn fun film, Army of Darkness is one the great legacies of the 1990's.

Shop Smart! SHOP S-MART!

UPDATE: The mean retards at Youtube have disabled the link embedded in the post. Sorry about that, folks. Here is an active link.