The Times's mush-minded conservatives: our latest doomed plea for the Times to save itself

Media Matters has a post up asking the following question: Does the Times need both David Brooks and John Tierney?

I've been thinking about that question a lot in the last month. Brooks, whose pre-column reporting work I loved, has turned out to be a disappointment. I won't agree with a conservative, but I like to be pushed and provoked, and based on past performance, I thought that Brooks was the man to do it. But Brooks writes with a tone that is almost apologetic for his right-leaning views. His columns are based on faulty premises, overbroad stereotypes and conclusory reasoning.

Brooks's 2001 article for The Atlantic, "The Organization Kid," is some kind of classic. When the Times appointed him, I was happy for him and excited for the paper. Sadly, as a columnist, he's obsessed with red state/blue state simplicities, and arbitrary cultural identity issues. This was on display in a recent column harping about the clashing worldviews of spiritual types and "militant secularists." This social conflict is as trumped up as a Wrestlemania grudge match. What bothers me more is Brooks's penchant for splitting people into tidy, discrete social castes. Most of his columns can be summarized as "Wal-Mart vs. Urban Outfitters." He throws in some conservative buzzwords, but his arguments are puddles of mush.

As the Media Matters post explains, John Tierney is up to the same tricks. Maybe it's reflective of a movement that's lost intellectual steam. The right wing is no longer fueled by Hayek and Milton Friedman. Conservatives have no unifying theme, and a lot of them are getting squeamish about the far tilt of their party. Maybe all that's left is a series of narratives about sneering overeducated liberals and the simple folk between the coasts, as if Richard Hofstadter had scripted a nationwide edition of Big Brother. Whatever the explanation, the output of these two columnists has ranged from the silly to the irrelevant.

There must be some professor at the University of Chicago who'd love to be the anti-Krugman. Until that day, the op-ed page suffers.

How wedgies turn Brad into Miguel Estrada

Like all reasonable people, I've been a fan of Real World and Road Rules since they first premiered. Here is real-time summary of tonight's episode of Inferno II.

Clubbin' time. "Everybody's swappin' lips and smackin' bellies," Darrell observes. Only now, everybody's screechin' in a mini-van. Brad gets a wedgie from Mike, and spazzes. He attacks cars. Holy Christ, the wedgie is the RR/RW equivalent of filibustering judicial nominees. "You know what, don't ever put your [expletive deleted] hands on my underwear," Brad says, making him the Miguel Estrada of this metaphor.

This week's challenge involves "some sweet-lookin' hot rods" and a perilous arrangement of glassware. (Senate Judiciary Committee) They're going to drag race, but they have to stop before they ram into margarita glasses. Brad is still flipping out about his wedgie. "I don't like rippin' people's underwear," he spazzes in an interview. By now I feel like giving a wedgie is a principled act. C.T. busts the clutch or something. They take turns driving the remaining operable sweet-lookin' hot rod. Landon errs, and crashes into the margarita glasses, like he's Priscilla Owen.

Mike "The Miz" gets the fastest race time and wins the lifeshield. He doesn't have to face Abe in the Inferno. (Remind you of William Pryor's recess appointment?) The three remaining good guys pick out of a hat to decide who will face Abe. It's Brad, the wedgie victim. Host Dave Mirra predicts that this "will be the most intense Inferno yet." Rachel, who I previously condemned in a Sunday Styles crit, views this as "the biggest Inferno yet." It's some homemade sport that combines football and basketball. I say, big deal. In fourth grade, all the neighborhood kids and our dogs used to play a game like this, and it usually ended with a bloody nose and somebody's mom making us all go home. Abram makes three points. Brad goes on offense. He makes two points. Abe wins. In an interview, Tina makes unattractive facial gestures and brags. She is not gracious. Now Darrell flips out, calls Abe a poodle or something. Some lady is crying. They recognize Brad as one of their best players.

Off he stalks, like so much Miguel Estrada, filibustered by wedgie and Abram. And man, Gwen Stefani has an annoying song. Who can listen to that stuff?

Oonce, oonce

Cole Slaw Blog has long been disdainful of New York's many nightclubs, and even more so of the clientele that inhabits them. However, we're thankful that we don't have to work there. Although if we did, we'd hope that we could produce at least as compelling blog as this guy.

The (anonymous) author comes across as an honest, working-stiff protagonist straight from an Elwood Reid short story. His outrage rarely bubbles over into diatribe, but when its does, the result can be genius. The bulk of the entries, though, tend toward simple journal entries, albeit one with some truly grotesque characters with shiny shirts and spiky hair.

Nevertheless, it's fascinating and more than a little nauseating to read about this from an insider's perspective. I'd always dismissed the vast majority of clubgoers as vapid, selfish idiots, and it turns out I couldn't have been more right. Yes, I'm feeling superior. But you go read the post about the people starting fights during a charity event on Sept. 11 last year and tell me you're overflowing with charity.

Cousin Geri is on Deadwood

I love HBO's Deadwood. Its byzantine plotlines and f-bomb loving, hard-drinking whoremongers are HBO's gifts to my Sunday nights. But who knew that Cousin Geri (her real name is Geri Jewell) from The Facts of Life plays Al Swearingen's longsuffering barkeep? Salon.com has an interview with her. She looks nothing like she did on Facts, a show that I loved circa 1983. By the show's wicked standards there's something almost sweet and affectionate about Al's relationship with Jewel. Salon and Geri agree. Plus, I love the idea of a Facts alumna cast in the Dakota territory of the 1870s. Here's hoping that Charlotte Rae makes an appearance in HBO's upcoming Rome series.

Sunday Stylin': brunch is for losers

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Cole Slaw Blog mini-reviews

The proprietors of Cole Slaw Blog like books and music, but not everything merits a full-blown review on the site. Here are a few books, performances, and albums that are worth some quick recommendations.

Goat, by Brad Land. A quick, dark read about the author's experiences pledging a fraternity at Clemson. A somewhat trite premise, but it's overcome by Land's sharp writing and powerful characters. The story is affecting and well told, though it sometimes wanders into dreaded "sensitive male" territory.

Freakonomics, by Steven D. Levitt and Stephen J. Drubner. Levitt is an economist at the University of Chicago who researches things like the link between abortion rates and crime statistics, the economics of baby naming, and the mixed incentive of realty agents. A quick, fun, breezy read; I sometimes wished for more detail, but the book targets a wide audience and hits its mark. The authors maintain a nice blog, which you can find here.

To Ruhleben -- and Back, by Geoffrey Pyke. The memoir of a resilient British teenager who takes a reporting assignment in Berlin during World War I, is arrested by German authorities, and placed in an internment camp. Long out of print, this sometimes-fun, sometimes-harowing book was recently republished by the people at McSweeney's, God bless 'em.

A Frieze of Girls, by Allan Seager. Seager's fiction was celebrated in his lifetime but quickly forgotten after he died. These semi-autobiographical short stories -- set in bootleg-era Memphis, Ann Arbor, Chicago, New York, and Oxford -- are the obscure F. Scott Fitzgerald stories you've never read. Tremendous stuff, beloved by both proprietors of this site. I liked it so much that I've tracked down a used copy of Seager's most famous novel, Amos Berry.

Pete Miser. This past Friday I headed out to Mercury Lounge with blog pin-up Brian and his much-celebrated girlfriend, the Queen of 2005. We went to see Seattle soul group Maktub, but the highlight for me was Pete Miser, an Oregon-raised, Brooklyn-based Asian-American rapper. He put on a great show, and happily, his new album is available for download on iTunes. He's a touch like Digable Planets, but with hyperliterate, witty lyrics that cover subjects like office-life banality and the neediness of being an "emotional M.C."

Guero, by Beck. I didn't like the album much, but the songs jump into my head when I'm just walking around or in the shower. These songs are catchy, light, and kind of annoying. I think that I don't like the album, but then it gets in my head and I bounce around the apartment like a 6'2 Gummi Bear. Hence, I am frustrated, and say that you should purchase the album at your own risk.

Open Season, by British Sea Power. With a lot of shitty '80s-throwback bands garnering notice via overwrought bullshit, these guys are the real deal. Their song "Stand Up" would fit in perfectly in that scene where C. Thomas Howell, Ally Sheedy, and Anthony Michael Hall have a moment of gestalt marking the passage from adolesence to adulthood, and I say that in a good way. They're playing two sold-out shows at Bowery Ballroom next weekend. (I have a spare ticket for Sunday; if you want to tag along, e-mail me.)

Separation Sunday, by The Hold Steady. So, so, so good, it merits a stand-alone review, but I don't want to embarrass myself. Yesterday I listened to it five times back to back; dark lyrics about drug abuse, violence, fucked-up romance; a vocalist who sounds world-weary and sarcastic; great punch-in-the-throat rock riffs. Sounds pompous, but it's not. Like Neil Young's "Cowgirl in the Sand" and "Down by the River," The Hold Steady tap into a heart of darkness and rock out. I am so in love with this album, it hurts. Tickets are still available to their May 19 show at the Bowery Ballroom.

What Comes After the Blues, by Magnolia Electric Co. Speaking of Neil, I found these guys through my favorite Neil Young site, Thrasher's Wheat, which compared them to a crunchy version of Crazy Horse. The comparison sort of stands up, especially in "The Dark Don't Hide It." Most of the album is a little too mellow for my taste (much like Neil's country-tinged work) but it's nice stuff to hear on a quiet Sunday afternoon.

Black Sheep Boy, by Okkervil River. Falls somewhere between the subjects of the two preceding reviews -- dark lyrics with a gentler sound. I was very enthusiastic about this album until I stumbled onto The Hold Steady, which pulls off the trick a little better than Okkervil River. For whatever reason, their lyrics remind me of Faulkner's short stories.

Book Review: Generation Kill (Part 2 of 2)

I recently posted an overview of Generation Kill by Evan Wright. This is my second installment.

Eight broad, not necessarily original, lessons from a book that does not tip its hand to any political agenda.

1. Civilians get killed. My own image of collateral damage involved errant smart bombs and other mishaps in aerial war. But during the ground battle, a huge number of civilians were killed. At times, the rules of engagement handed down were permissive at best. The book has some gruesome, vivid passages about civilians (children, men, women) maimed or killed, sometimes for no discernable reason. This is something I knew in the abstract, but the extent and the casualness were more than I expected. No doubt that the government is somewhat right in talking about efforts to limit civilian casualties, but it's kind of like bragging about the broken glass that shattered only into large pieces.

2. Even though civilians are being killed, it's tough to blame the soldiers. The soldiers have no way of knowing who's friendly and who's a threat. A teenager lighting a cigarette almost gets shot because his motions look like a rebel talking into a walkie talkie. Most of the time, the troops recognize that the rules of engagement are overbroad, and don't utilize the license that they're given. At times they are glib and callous; a few minutes later, they're devastated but try not to show it. With the exception of one or two guys, you end up pitying them as they commit sometimes gruesome acts.

3. Soldiers are incompetently led. The Marines' middle-management outdoes Robert Duvall's character in Apocalypse Now. My earlier post described this a little as to Captain America and Kasey Casem. The hard truth is that the people in charge need to be unsentimental about the death of their men. They fight to win, not to save their underlyings. But the harder truth is that much of the leadership is cavalier and irrational in their moment-to-moment decisions. (Easy for me to say lying on my couch with Conan O'Brien on TV, but don't take it from me, take it from the book.)

4. You hate the people responsible for starting this war. Not that you needed any new reasons. Wright builds up a lot of respect and affection for his subjects. By the end of the book they've gone through hell, and the futility of their efforts begins to come clear.

5. Everybody looted. The soldiers looted and the civilians looted. In one episode, the soldiers go into a modern office building hoping to lift some mementos. When they find that the interior is no different from any office in Kansas City, they smash some of the computers. The locals began the looting right away. A new, modern water treatment plant gets trashed. The U.S. military had no pretense of keeping order, and occasionally contributed to the disarray.

6. Iraqis want stability and wealth, not democracy. Almost all of the Iraqis hate Saddam, but not for his human rights violations or political oppression. As soon as the Marines scratch below the surface, the locals complain bitterly about the lack of work and economic opportunity. None of them talk about wanting to vote, or tortured family members. In not wanting to vote and mostly hoping for work and stability, they sound exactly like Americans.

7. We would have been better off making Iraq the 51st state. Counterintuitive, and I'm overstating a little. Still, in the first days of the war, they wanted more from America, not less. And by more, I don't mean Senate representation or UPN, but the sort of capital improvements and public works that come from direct public intervention. The mistake won't be exiting too late, but exiting too soon, and our biggest fuck-up might turn out to be giving them too much autonomy too quickly.

8. Press coverage of the war is a failure. A huge, wild failure, deeper and broader than I realized. Even when they've dropped the cheerleading, print and TV have failed to convey the brutality and ambiguity of what's happened in the war. It's uglier than the press has let on, which is why reading this book is essential.

Two other straightforward, non-polemical books on the Iraq War that I recommend: Rise of the Vulcans, by James Mann (Viking 2004), a group biography and intellectual history of the neocons in the Bush cabinet; War is a Force That Gives Us Meaning, Chris Hedges (Public Affairs 2002), a former war correspondent's views about the group psychology that encourages a nation to opt into war.

Wine Review: Here's looking at you, kid

Oh, it was all too perfect, wasn't it? I was all set to do Cole Slaw Blog's first-ever review of fine wines. I bought an inexpensive Bordeaux to go up against a similarly styled blend (Cabernet-Sauvignon and Merlot) from Washington State and I was going to see how the two fared against each other. But it was a total fucking rout. The Bordeaux tasted like it came from Home Depot _ far too much lumber. What does a blogger expect for $9?

Well, the other wine, from the Columbia River valley, was pretty damn good, and only $8. Which is why Cole Slaw Blog is now thinking of the many times he's visited Portland, Ore. and Seattle, and no longer paying any goddamn attention to what he's supposed to be writing. Also, Cole Slaw Blog has now put in his favorite DVD and will be outsourcing the rest of this review. Cheers!

Trouble in the 616

Some fucking Bible translator messed up, so all that shit about 666 is out the window. Turns out that 616 is the mark of the beast. I grew up in the 616 area code, so I'm concerned that I went to high school with the antichrist. Since then, the area code split, so it's possible that the antichrist is now in Grand Rapids. If so, she has plenty of reasons to be pissed.

Thursday Stylin': Don't Date Alex Kuczynski

In today's desperately pathetic attempt to fill space and gain advertising revenue, the Times goes to the well again, with yet another story the Chanel "exhibit" at the Met. Also, the exporting of materialism rules, as does pirate gear. Digital photos, however, are less cool.

Materialism around the world: The Times fills us in on developments from India Fashion Week, and boy, is that one lucky subcontinent. Why, just a decade ago, "prêt-à-porter fashion barely existed here in any Western sense."

Not anymore! Now the Indian fashion scene is one totally recognizable to Stylin' section readers: "paparazzi, blanket front-page coverage and daily seating wars. " Begorrah!

But wait, just because India's consumerism is developing doesn't mean it's not time to condescend! Check it, homes:

For every even marginally subtle designer ... there are five others whose work looks as if it is destined for a camel fair in Rajasthan. Kurtas, salwar kameez, churridar trousers, saris, caftans, and formal sherwani coats came paved with sequins, barnacled with cowrie shells, encrusted with zardozi embroidery, ornamented with ghungroo bells and universally accessorized with sad clunky shoes.

Later on, we get this lament.

Yet Indian fashion inexplicably continues to drift along lazily, as if the vital subcontinent that made a gift to the world of calico, madras, chintz, tie-dye, crewelwork and virtually the entire technique of hand block printing was somehow not motivated to propel itself out of the backwaters of design.

Of course, there's encouraging news: Delhi residents are positively mad for Gucci mini clutches, Louis Vuitton sandals and botox. So it's all good, motherfuckers.

It's the new White Man's Burden ... teaching an entire subcontinent how to covet shit no one needs.

Begorrah!: More crap about the Chanel exhibit at the Metropolitan Museum of Art.

The Stylin' section sighs and shakes its head at how brilliant an exhibit this could have been. We'll stipulate that this could be true, because we just don't fucking care. It's corporate shillery at an art museum. There's plenty of other things we'd rather see.

That said, check out this:

Given the juggernaut of publicity for the opening on Monday night of the Chanel exhibition at the Metropolitan Museum of Art - the howling paparazzi on the red-carpeted steps, the 7,000 gardenias displayed among the topiary hedges, the list of V.I.P.'s and the presence of so many Chanel executives from Paris - it is a wonder that the pharaohs weren't removed to make room for little black dresses. To someone on the outside, it might seem that Chanel and Condé Nast, the exhibition's sponsors, had taken over the museum.

Although I suspect Cole Slaw Blog and the Stylin' section are coming at this from different angles, I think we can agree on that.

Stop Them Before They Shoot Again: Here we have some advice for the kind of self-absorbed idiots who read this section. Don't e-mail a deluge of digital photos to your friends, because they're too busy trying to get reservations at Pastis to bother with you. Sage.

Here at Cole Slaw Blog, we can feel superior, because our photos rarely include "multiple shots of the same child at the same moment at slightly different angles." We're more likely to have drunk people throwing shit and clapping like Lancelot Link.

Champs-Elysées, at Home on Madison: Good things about this article: Alex Kuczynski's usual speculation and guesswork is pretty much absent. Bad things: Just about everything else.

Here, the Timeswoman covers the opening of the Hermès store on Madison Avenue ... six years ago. So maybe the news hook here is that the luxury retailer is finally at home. Who knows? What we get are some first-person accounts of our intrepid correspondent's experiences with Hermès, as well as minor snark on "$8 hoop earrings" from the author of last week's piece celebrating earrings that cost a mere $3.80. There will be no such pikery today, however.

Not on such sacred consumerist ground.

The scarf counter is a retail paradise, unchanged in its basic form since Hermès introduced the scarf in 1937. Much imitated, often tragicomically so, the scarf is not just a functional, beautiful wardrobe staple, it is a rite of passage. All told, I own 12.

Each scarf comes with its own madeleine of memory: Christmas 1992. I asked my impoverished boyfriend to either grow a beard for me or cough up an Hermès scarf, an impossibility on his budget. Christmas came: no beard. He produced an Hermès scarf, explaining that his boss had a policy against facial hair. I felt guilty for 10 years. O.K., a year.

After reading that, I find myself in desparate need of a shower. Let's hope in the years since, said anonymous ex has also been able to produce some self-respect and dignity.

Avast, ye scurvy seadogs!: Pirates are totally in! Arr! Sneakers, belts, shirts, sunglasses and more all be havin' the skull n' crossbones. But what would a trend profiled in the Stylin' section be without overkill. If you want empty your wallet to play privateer, you can spend more than two grand on a cashmere sweater with a jolly roger motif. Or you can go to Barney's and buy a $295 action figure. I'll include a quote because you wouldn't believe me otherwise.

Barneys asked several designers to custom-fit a look from their spring collections on a 12-inch figure topped by a menacing white skull. Marc Jacobs did a trench coat and jeans; Jil Sander designed a tailored white suit and pink tie; and Dries van Noten recreated his tweed linen jacket and hand-knit leg warmers. The $295 dolls are expected to go on sale in the Madison Avenue store on Friday.

I'm sure they'll sell like McGriddles. As this is part of Eric Wilson's "Front Row" column, there's also a brief tale under the subhead Hamptons Hot Spots. Apparently, someone was going to open a store, but J.Crew offered more rent. So they got the place. But the first person got a store, too. So she can sell her "signature 1970's-fit pants" and goddamn jeans still.

Skin Deep: Man Stands at a New Frontier: Men age, too. Some men are willing to spend thousands of dollars on shit to keep them looking young. This is becoming more popular. Needless to say, this is worth half a page in The New York Times. Sigh.

Open for Business: Footwear beat writer Stephanie Rosenbloom tells us where we can purchase Adidas gear (SoHo) and Jimmy Choo footwear (Atlanta). She also informs us that ribbons are feminine, making sure to back up her thesis with examples. Thanks, Stephanie Rosenbloom!

In other Stylin' news, golfers pay more attention to fitness now, and some people who smoke still work out, but its even better for them to work out and quit smoking, too. Also, vitamins are good for you, and can make you look good.

I think I speak for everyone when I say that Sunday Stylin' can't come soon enough. What advertorial delights awaits us? More metrosexual products to purchase? More shoe insights? I'm so excited, I feel like whipping up a batch of my special asparagus cole slaw. You know what, I just might.