The thing about rich little liberal arts colleges

Turns out I love them. Or at least, the people that go to them. One girl goes to Princeton, and she’s– well she’s great. Thought I’d get that out of the way right off the bat.
The thing about our nation is, we’re in a financial crisis. And a cinema-quality presidential election. And there’s supposed to be debates today, if we’re lucky.
The bad news is John McCain is devoted to sitting in Congress and supporting bipartisan relations by obviously not pissing off Democrats who think he pulling an obvious political ploy to side-step debating the eloquent black man (oh, I said it) who’s the Democratic nominee. The good news is, this makes John McCain kind of like Davy Crockett, and Davy Crockett could grin down a bear, so that should make Stephen Colbert pretty happy.
Anyway, if the economy really does go down the shitter, that means rich little liberal arts colleges won’t have to worry about poor kids getting loans and ruining the party, so that’s you know, rad, bro.

Broken Toes and Racism

I broke my toes. Just two of them, the third and fourth on my right foot.

Luckily this has not yet impeded my dancing ability. I’m beginning to suspect that they are not in fact broken, but it is also true that my pain receptors do not work correctly.

This is not about my toes. This is about LIFE.

So speaking of things that are broken, I know this really great guy. Yeah, he’s really great and smart and a little obnoxious but funny enough that it’s ok. Anyway I also know of this really cute girl and she likes him, but he has said he won’t date her because she’s white, so they must be culturally different since he’s black. That makes very little sense to me. He grew up in the gol durn suburbs. He doesn’t even suck, usually.

So that’s kind of stupid, and if you are bothered about that type of thing, you should read “Brownies” by ZZ Packer. It’s good.

Or you can forget all that stuff and listen to Say Hi. Umm… don’t let the comparison to Nada Surf fool you… they don’t suck, ever.

Anti-Choice or Pro-Death?

Do you enjoy killing babies?
Are you a whore?
Are you attempting to skirt accountability by betraying your very spawn?

or

Are you a religious zealot?
Are you a sexist pig?
Are you stuck in the past?

For a second, forget about the spin.
There is one issue– one debatable issue– and that seems to be:
When is it alive?

“It” is clearly human. But when is it a life? Somehow, it seems like this should not be that difficult to resolve. There are certainly enough scientific capabilities available to distinguish living things from non-living things. But that’s what Terri Schiavo said.

Regardless, if abortion isn’t murder, then killing a pregnant women shouldn’t be double-homicide.

But then, I’m obviously just exercising my gay privilege to discriminate against pregnant people.

Perfection

One of my extremely famous friends has recently decided to adjourn on the path to perfection.
Besides for this being a stupid idea, it brings up a very boring question that everybody always talks about. Still, this is not the fanny pack page, it is the argyle page, so it is thematically defensible to explore threadbare but strangely enticing subjects.
So, what is perfection?
For a while I figured it was just an American spelling of Obama, but recently I’ve been having second thoughts. I don’t like rich white people either, but they do wear a lot of cool sweaters, which is a point any rational person would consider.
At one point it seemed like perfection was Michael Jordan, but his stint with the Wizards made him look about as magic as Shaq.
I’m pretty sure, ultimately, that perfection does not exist in any form more pure than The National’s most recent album Boxer. Paste Magazine calls it the best of 2007, but the biggest trick of perfection is longevity. The National’s layered instrumentals and deep, resonant vocals get better with every listen, so allow me to mystically predict that it will also be the best album of 2008. Which doesn’t make sense, until you admit to yourself that the listening experience is practically reinvented with every listen. It’s not lyric-driven, but the words are every bit as poignant as The Mountain Goats… just with a far more ambiguous application.
The music sounds at times like an orchestral waterfall, crashing into the undercurrent of singer Matt Berninger’s rumbling vocals. Listen to it during thunderstorms, on too-bright mornings, on gross muggy nights, or on glorious walks through meadows of dainty, effervescent (?) wildflowers… you won’t find any weather or mood that can’t be considered in conjunction with this sound.
Excuse the previous poetry. It is idyllic because I am sullying The National by calling them Perfect.
Don’t worry about it. They will rise above my groveling words.
Maybe my famous friend’s next viral video will sound a little more like this