This debut paper by Stan Wankey's talented son brings home
the depth of disconnection between the "targeted demographic"
male and the world of stable, productive human beings upon which
the former feeds. Now, as virtual reality provides tactile stimulation
technology, this group has even less of an incentive to leave
the house. However, Wankey's suggested "gaming rooms"
in cube farms hardly seem the answer. Put down the controller,
kid, and step away from the XXX-Box. |
Freud clued in on the fear of losing it branded on the male of the species, but Grammy relates this to the complementary fear de-boobification for the womynist set. It seems that all operations are a battle between the body and its own biology, and this gets played out as crime writ large, the bebop of the psychosexual self. |
To a generation used to popping their grandparents' nitroglycerin pills for a thrill, the idea of turning young people on to the more mundane flavors of the past poses a problem. Hopper proposes a solution—of approximately .5 oz. denatured alcohol and a well-placed match. |
Hip-hop's homophobia started way before Eminem ever dropped his first f-bomb (the three-letter one), but some strides are being made--slowly. With a progress report on how the stereotypes are being shattered, from hip-hop's embrace of interior design through MTV Cribs to the pioneering character of Gangstalicious on The Boondocks, Lincoln quoted one rapper as saying, "we're here, we're queer, don't shoot." |
Not content to dominate classical music, those pushing Suzuki techniques have branched out into puzzles and games, intent on converting the very way the next generations think. Sedition as Sudoku? Weirder things have happened, a concerned Soweda notes, and this paper certainly makes clear that by driving down the age of competence, Suzuki methods help adults lose their sense of confidence. The play is the thing to catch the concept that's our king. |
It's not enough to serve watery beer and moistened, mushy nuts: today's strip club must upscale if it is to remain relevant in an era in which Isaac Mizrahi deigns to design for Target. Not just stripping, contends LeBoef, but KC strips will pack the pleasure palaces with clientèle used to pay-per-spew skin flix on their big-screen TVs. But the question LeBoef neglects to reveal and, ironically, covers up with her bevy of gyrating dancers, is why should we care? |
Norma Perfect is not alone: the ranks of those who have gone before are Rich. But this dive guide provides the lip-service, however muffled, to those who need to know that the decision is individual. We were all suitably inspired—and nice depth-charts as well! |
Contemporary praise-song, with its superficial, rah-rah approach to spirituality, has never been very good at dealing with the darker side of everlasting life: somebody has to die to get there. Grant suggests that the church camp is the right place for this with its actual safety within the convenient metaphor of wilderness. But binary notions of heaven and hell provide little comfort, no matter how tasty the s'mores. |
Proxy
Grope: the Advent of the Webcam Reacharound and What It Means
for the Employment Prospects of the 16-24 Year-Old Male
Lorena
Bobbit, the Unmusical, or The Bouncing Balls of Bra-ed Way Come
to a Sudden End
PBR
and Pudding Pops: the Plosive, Explosive Flavor of Future Cuisine,
or GenY Comes of Age
Flava
Flame: High Times for Gay Hip-Hop
Rubik's
Cherubics: the Totterizing of the Classic Puzzles, a Suzuki
Conspiracy to Control the Youth of the West
Strict
Club Culture: Bondage and Beefsteak, the Strip Club Grows Up
No
Room for Groupies In the Wreck (but there Is for Groupers!):
Solace in the Solitary, or Communing with Nature for the Coming-Out,
a Dive Guide
Tomb-By-Ya:
Praise Song Thanatopsic, or Dealing with Death at Church Camp,
an Inslider's Perspective