What's the worst thing about chief New York Times pop sociologist David Brooks' new column, which is titled "The D.C. Dubstep" in a vague approximation of cleverness? Is it the insipid central metaphor, by which Brooks has each party doing "dance moves" in advance of the coming sequester and its accompanying deep budget cuts? Is it the names of those dance moves, names so embarrassing my hands are actively attempting to prevent me from typing them out? (For the record: the Democrats are doing the "P.C. Shimmy"—P.C. as in "permanent campaign"—the Republicans, the "Suicide Stage Dive.") Is it his misguided, near-religious belief that Both Parties Are At Fault? Or is it this sentence: "The president hasn't actually come up with a proposal to avert sequestration, let alone one that is politically plausible." David. He has. It's right here. It's a banger, I promise. [NYT]
The broadcast starts at 9 p.m.
For all of humanity's greatness—the pyramids, the Hoover Dam, our capacity to love—human beings have proven ourselves quite capable of doing truly disgusting things, also, including waging wars, acting upon greed, and wearing those godforsaken toe shoes. In an effort to build a more just, rational, and aesthetically pleasing future, here is a list of 22 things Gawker is banning in 2013. At the stroke of midnight on December 31, be sure to either immediately stop doing the actions listed here, or, if it's an object that's being banned, a toe shoe, perhaps, incinerate it in a trash can. The civilized world thanks you!
"Dubstep" (or EDM) is generally terrible music beloved by America's teenagers. These children go see their favorite DJs in arenas or at festivals, where they chug liquor out of water bottles and/or take various forms of MDMA and whatever else gross adult drug dealers sell them. The problem is that teenagers don't understand how to take drugs without nearly killing themselves, which means that things like this happen at events like Haunted Coliseum at the Nassau Coliseum.
Someday, hundreds of years from now, your great-great-great-great-etc. grandchildren will approach the jar in which your brain is kept and whisper into the microphone, What was the internet like in 2011? And they will wait, in the cluttered and dusty back room where you live, so to speak, as the computer processes and converts your firing synapses, until the small printer on the shelf below you produces a slip of paper with two words: "libertarian dubstep." And your tiny blind descendants will run off back to work in the thorium mine before the robot foremen notice their absence, and you will be left alone again, wishing you could tell them more; wishing you could show them L.A. Weekly's interview with Porter Robinson, "the libertarian dubstep guy"; wishing you could explain to them what it meant; wishing you could say why millions of young white men across the country were forwarding each other Ron Paul YouTube videos and listening to Skrillex. And then you realize that you don't really know, yourself: you—what is left of you—have never really known; you are as mystified still, centuries later, as you were that day, hundreds of years in the past, when you first heard "The State."