What are the odds of this being Halfway Decent? 13 to One.
After seeing a preview of upcoming crime caper, Oceans 13 before the 7:30 showing of Blades of Glory, Tampa, Fla. resident Beth Flournoy remains convinced that Oceans 13 will easily be the finest film of the Oceans trilogy. A conclusion that in recent weeks has put her at odds with both friends and family.
“I don’t care what they say,” Flourney said matter-of-factly. “I remain 100 percent positive that Oceans 13 will tie up all the loose ends started in the first two films. What people don’t understand is that Danny Ocean is very complex man. You can’t tell his entire life story in just two movies. Did they tell Elijah Wood, hey man, you’ve got to wrap this whole Lord of the Things thing in two movies. I don’t think so.”
Attempts by Flournoy’s husband to dissuade Beth from her beliefs, were to no avail.
“You should’ve seen how excited she got when she saw the preview and George Clooney had a mustache,” Jacob Flournoy said. “I know she can’t actually think that this one is going to be good. She doesn’t even know any of the characters names other than Clooney. She thinks anything Clooney’s in is brilliant. Even The Facts of Life.
The Facts of Life: The Mullet Years
Jacob Fluornoy was not the only one in the Flournoy household convinced that their mother has poor taste in movies. Rebecca Flournoy, the couple’s 14-year old daughter also expressed displeasure with being forced to hear about Ocean’s 13 at the dinner table.
“Oh my god, my mom is so lame,” Flournoy said rolling her eyes. “Everyone knows those movies are just an excuse for a bunch of rich movie stars to go on vacation all over the world and get paid $20 million to do so. And the only people who really want to see it are women who totally want to see George Clooney, Brad Pitt, Al Pacino, and Matt Damon in tuxedos. Whatever, that’s lame. They should put Bright Eyes in the movie or something. Than I’d go see it.”
Bright Eyes declined to comment, despite his geographical proximity to the Flournoy family. Reportedly, the singer known as Conor Oborst was attending another psychic camp in Florida, trying to figure out what sort of magic potion to take to actually make a good record.
Bright Eyes: Just Like Bob Dylan. If Bob Dylan Really Really Sucked However, despite her daughter’s request for Bright Eyes to be added to the cast, Beth Flournoy claimed that the film will be perfect, just the way it is.
“This film is not about commerce, it’s not about the major studios wanting major franchise blockbusters to prop up sagging box box office, this film is about Danny Ocean saying to his gang of lovably handsome rapscallions, ‘hey guys, Andy Garcia is out to get us, let’s go fuck shit up while drinking martinis in tuxedos,” Beth Flournoy said. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a trailer to re-watch.
But did they really need to decorate Don Cheadle in an American Flag jacket?
Off the strength of his powerhouse performance at the Radio and Television Correspondents’ Association dinner, MC Rove has been signed to a multi-album deal at “gangsta rap’s” most renowned label, Interscope. With hip-hop sales flagging of late, Jimmy Iovine and Co. claim that MC Rove is exactly the sort of new talent that the label needs to actively pursue.
“It’s no secret that we like our rappers oozing with street cred,” Iovine said. “From 50 Cent to Young Buck, to back when we had ‘Pac, the big bucks come when rappers forget about skills and lyrics and focus on the important things: keepin’ it “gangsta.” After watching Rove help run America for the past seven years, I knew he could keep it gangsta. After all, he’s helped kill more people than all of our rappers combined. But I didn’t know he could rap. If I had to make a prediction, MC Rove will in fact be our next treasure trove. I just hope he looks good with his shirt off on the album cover.”
Rove himself seemed excited by this latest venture, anticipating the challenges of the world of hip-hop.
“I’m not gonna’ lie, I’m excited about my first beef,” Rove chuckled sinisterly. “Shit, its been since 04 since we had beef with John Kerry and my trigger finger’s growing itchy. I’m thinking about taking on that punk-ass Admadinejad on wax and letting my boy Dubya handle it on the ground. Know what I’m saying? It’s like what BIG said: “What’s beef? Beef is when you need two gats to go to sleep. Beef is when you roll no less than 30 deep. Beef is when I see you, guaranteed to be in I.C.U.” I told that to Colin Powell right before handing him a dossier of fake evidence to present before the U.N.
Whatever Happened to a Good Ol’ Fashioned Tar & Feathering?
Rove’s label-mate, 50 Cent says he’s looking forward to meeting with Interscope’s latest roster addition.
“I’m thinking MC Rove could fit right into G-Unit,” 50 Cent said while finishing off the details of a new deal to license his name to a new line of women’s panty-hose. “That mothafucka’s gangsta, he’s not scared to walk into town and just start blasting, with no plans to clean up the mess. Those GOP dudes roll deep. If we can get MC Rove in the Unit, he can bring us tons of automatics from his hook-up at the NRA, maybe even bring in some oil tycoons to finance the operation. And you know he can’t rap any worse than Banks or Ya-Yo.”
But not all parties were pleased with Rove’s new position. President Bush expressed despair at the loss of the man often called “Bush’s Brain.”
“I’ll miss turd blossom. He’s been one of my most trusted advisers since the get-go, but when he told me he needed to do his duty to help the ailing hip-hop labels, I told him he needed to go,” Bush said. “Fewer and fewer records each year, mean fewer and fewer record industry billionaires. If we can’t bail out the industry and those billionaires lose all their wealth and power, who will be left for us to pander to? After all, there’s only so many Evangelicals you can slavishly obey.’
When asked about his debut album’s title, Rove told Passion of the Weiss Sources that it will be entitled “More Bombs Over Baghdad.” When informed that there already was a rap record with a similar title, Rove double-checked and soon realized that he had been merely been reading his outgoing policy recommendations for Iraq.
Another year, another opening day, as all across America baseball fans throng to their stadium of choice, flush with optimism, joy, and hope. All of them certain that this year will be “the year.” The year when that “local sports team” finally goes all the way, winning the World Series and restoring a sense of pride, dignity and respect to town. Of course, such concepts are foreign to me. Why? Because like Job (no George Oscar Bluth), I’m destined to suffer the tragic life of a Cincinnati Reds fan, scarred by years of being mathematically eliminated by the third week in April, harboring no naive illusions about my squad’s lot in the world.
It’s not even that the Reds are perennial losers, having missed the playoffs every year since 1995. It’s the fact that no one gives a damn whether or not the Reds lose or win. Sure Cubs fans bitch and moan all day long about how their team hasn’t won a championship since 1906. But ultimately, being a Cubs fans engenders wild amounts of sympathy from people. Everyone knows the Cubs sad history and roots for them. No one roots for the Reds. The Reds are like the Robin Williams of baseball. Everyone vaguely remembers that they used to be good, but trying to recall exactly when brings to mind visions of leisure suits, mustaches and polyester.
You might be wondering why in fact, a kid born and raised in Los Angeles would root for the Cincinnati Reds. A very good question and one I’ll rue till the day I die. You see, back in 1985, I was a very young Passion of the Weiss, playing my first season of T-Ball and looking for a pro baseball team to root for. With the Dodgers being anathema in the Giants-loving Weiss household, I couldn’t root for the home team. Instead, I decided to throw my allegiances to my T-Ball team, The Reds. In truth, I’d have been better to throw my allegiances under a bus. At least it would’ve been over quick and painless.
Eric The Red: He Was Neither A Viking Nor A Communist, Discuss
Indeed, this sick and twisted pact has allowed me to suffer through a litany of abuses, each one questioning my faith, yet never shaking my allegiance to the squad. There was the Pete Rose gambling disgrace that exposed the Reds as being bad enough so that their own manager would bet against them (maybe). There was general racist insanity of the Marge Schott years that led Schott to call my favorite players Eric Davis and Dave Parker “million dollar n—s.” Not to mention her penchant for keeping old Nazi relics around the house while claiming that “all sneaky Jews are alike” and that “Hitler was initially good for Germany.” She also managed to declare that “only fruits wear earrings” and allow her St. Bernard Schottzie to shit on the field. Which I suppose isn’t much different from what the players were doing on the field in the first place.
Of course, there was the lone triumph in my 22 years of Reds fan-dom, the 1990 World Series win, also known as the happiest two weeks of my life. Yet instead of building on that Nasty Boys/Eric Davis led championship, the team immediately returned to mediocrity, finishing fifth in 1991. Finally, at the end of 1999, hope seemed to be on the way. The Reds finally sprung for a big name player, bringing in Ken Griffey Jr. to play in his home town. As the Reds had almost made the playoffs that year (losing in a one-game playoff the day after the season officially ended), Griffey seemed to be the final piece of the puzzle, that would finally bring the Reds back to their Big Red Machine glory days. Instead, Griffey turned into the biggest baseball bust since Morganna The Kissing Bandit, somehow finding ways to get injured that scientists had yet to discover. Naturally, as 2007 rolls around, Griffey attempts to recover from yet another injury, this time breaking his wrist in a slip and fall on his fucking YACHT IN THE BAHAMAS.
With their erstwhile slugger recovering from injury and the franchise still loathe to spend money on free agents, The Reds’ 2007 squad seems a lock to continue our proud seven year sub-.500 losing streak. Needless to say, you know your team’s in trouble when their big off-season move is re-signing Bronson Arroyo, a man dumb enough to record a covers album, featuring renditions of Goo Goo Dolls and Toad the Wet Sprocket songs. What happened, Bronson? Would Collective Soul not license the rights to “Shine?” So as the 2007 season rears its ugly head, I wish all your teams the best of luck. As for me, I’m resigned to my fate. I know the truth. When you’re talking ineptitude, only one team can make me see red.
Dear Sir,
I wanted to thank you so much for wearing that see-through crocheted black nipple-shirt while you were working out today. The fellas’ and I were talking about it in the locker room and agreed that there truly aren’t enough people comfortable displaying nipple in public. You, sir, are a fashion pioneer. Why bother with things like cloth, comfort or sanitation when you can tell the world, here are my nipples, here me roar. I’m proud, I’m scantily attired and I’m ready to bench two sets of 45s on the bench press.
Perhaps the only thing more impressive than the showy curvature of your muscles was your platinum white hair. Indeed, few 60-year old men can pull off the butch Barry Manilow look with such verve and vigor. Not only did you succeed, I even heard one of the girls at the front desk ask, “do you think we need to call security on that dude?” And by security, I think she meant sex.
Clay Aiken: This is Your Future
I also was quite inspired by your sartorial flair. Only a true fashionista would pair high socks with short shorts (or an NBA player circa 1977-1983). Coupled with your see-through nipple shirt, I think you might have succeeded in covering up a whopping 17 percent of your flesh. Kudos. There are many things I like to think about when working out: taxes, the Kashmir question (like Puffy said, it’s all about the partition, baby) and the occasional rumination on how sound it was to cast Tiffani Amber-Thiessen as Leon Phelp’s love interest in The Ladies Man. But not today. Today, the only thought going through my head was: is this guy a meth-head or just a plain pervert? As Phelps himself might say, “yeah, thass cool.”
Ultimately, your decision to dazzle the entire Gold’s Gym with your niptastic display of skin, led me to question my entire place in the Cosmos. Why go through the motions of living when I know that someone else will always look infinitely more superior while working out? One might ask why I couldn’t just buy my own see-through nipple shirt, but that isn’t the point. I’m no poseur. There’s only one original and that’s you! You sassy fellow. In the meantime, each day, I shall live in shame, knowing damn well the astounding fashion potential you wield each time you grab that lat pull bar. You best believe, I will dedicate the rest of my life living up to the example that you have set. The bar has raised high. Nipple-high.
Thank you for making me a better person,
Jeff Weiss
So I’m pissed. Surprise Surprise. But for once, I have a legit reason. You see last night, I was supposed to have attended a Spaceland performance from the much hyped, big voiced walking disaster known as Amy Winehouse. Granted, Winehouse doesn’t make the type of music I normally get down with, but for major label pop music, I can’t deny that Winehouse’s sophomore album, Back in Black is pretty solid. It’s not the sort of thing I’m about to bump in my car anytime soon, but it’s pleasant, melodic and the girl’s voice is undeniably monstrous. Plus, any girl who brags about refusing to go to rehab and bitching about scavenger smokers who smoke up all their weed is a-ok in my book.
Or so I thought until last night, when Winehouse bailed at the last minute, another not-so-shocking example of her lack of professionalism. Indeed, over the past few weeks her big-coming-out tour has been plagued by last minute cancellations, see London a few weeks ago, SXSW last week (where she canceled on the Brooklyn Vegan show, among others), and now Spaceland, where the official reason given by her publicist was: “Amy didn’t believe the Spaceland stage was big enough to accommodate her band.”
I call bullshit, considering large bands like The Arcade Fire and The Parson Redheads never had a problem with the stage at Spaceland being too small. And it’s not like Winehouse really needs a 10-person band backing her at all times. I’m sure someone in the band would’ve been cool hanging backstage with a blunt and passing the time away just fine. I’m not sure why Winehouse didn’t just come out and say that the dog ate her fucking homework, which might have been the only excuse less believable than “the stage isn’t big enough.” Which didn’t seem to be a problem the night before at the equally intimate Roxy, where Winehouse performed and posed with celebrities all night long With that in mind, I present:
The Top 10 Reasons Why Amy Winehouse Really Canceled Her Show At Spaceland
10. Her Weed Got Lost In Her Marge Simpson Beehive and she refused to perform sober.
9. Her Shangri-La’s Tape Got Misplaced on the Flight From Austin and she forgot who to imitate.
8. A cocaine epiphany at 4:00 a.m. prompted her to immediately fly back to London to be Bat-Mitzvah’d. Again.
7. Had to help re-dye Perez Hilton’s hair a lighter shade of pink.6. She heard from Britney about a great tattoo parlor in Tarzana.
5. Decided to take Ghostface up on his offer to run trains at the Days Inn.
4. Pete Doherty had climbed ahead of her in the official British rankings of Musicians Who Double As Natural Disasters.
3. She realized she hadn’t eaten in 13 days. Oops.
2. Elvira called and told her she wanted her look back.
1. They tried to make her go to rehab. Maybe next time, she ought to say “yes, yes, yes.”
It’s not easy being a blogger. All day long you slave sans pay, trying your damndest to write coherently, respond timely to e-mails from publicists, fellow bloggers, and the occasional convict (note to prisoner 504232 locked down in Folsom: I gotcha’ back) and still trying to get the occasional paying freelance gig to keep your stray cat stocked up with Friskies. Needless to say, the highlight of any 21st century blogger’s life is that glorious stretch at the end of the day, when he can sit back and recline in his ergonomically correct chair and peruse his Myspace account to see what’s happening in the world of cyber-whoring.
Lo and behold, I logged into Myspace just yesterday to find myself besieged by an intriguing friend request proposition from a young woman desperately trying to be friends with The Passion of the Weiss. How flattered I was. Me, a young, naive blogger being asked to be friends with the esteemed likes of Flirty Candy, a 23-year old girl from Charlotte, North Carolina. Sure, she didn’t have a picture on her page, but I knew from her profile that this was a girl I’d like to have on my hard drive. So to speak. Just check out her insightful and eloquent profile prose.
“M|S|N MESENGER = kissabliss19@gmail.com (GMAIL NOT HOTMAIL) CHAT ME ON THERE IF YA WANT.. IM USUALLY ALWAYS ONLINE… I also have A..I..M but I its goes all screwy on me all the time and freezes!! If you don’t have M|S|N then A..I..M me at clashycutie21 but Im warning u I may not reply as its constantly freezing lol.. Besides if u dont have M|S|N you’re a LOSER lol jks!!! :)”—
Wow. She’s always online! Me too. Flirty Candy, we’re a match made in cyber-heaven! Could this be the one? I think so. Robbins Bros. here I come!
Tila Tequila, You’re My Only Friend (So Here’s a Bit of Advice, Stay Away From Paul Wall)
But that was just the tip of the proverbial iceberg. Flirty Candy seemed to have every quality a man could hope to find in a woman. Her profile continued: “Im a cool chick, I get a long with almost everyone. I know how to have fun and make people feel comfortable around me. I’m a BIG fan of making-out lol..”
OMG, Making Out, LOL, That’s like so cool. That’s like Pete Wentz cool. I wonder if Flirty Candy would make out with me? Probably. She DID friend request me and why would a girl who I’ve never met lie to me? Impossible. So I read on in her self-illuminating profile.
“I’m looking for a nice sexy guy who has what it takes to keep me interested and wants to explore me like i want to explore him. I’m not that picky but I do know what I want. Looks aren’t everything so I give everyone an equal chance!”
She was describing me to a tee! I’m nice. I’m sexy. I like exploring. Fuck, I have like 14 books on Magellan. And hey, looks aren’t everything to Flirty Candy (just money). Gee whiz, that’s just swell.
But when I arrived at the last part of her profile, where she listed her turn-ons, suddenly, I realized that I may not be the perfect match for Flirty Candy, whose turn-ons include: “Abs,asses, boobs, tongues, tattoos, piercings, soft skin, shaved down there, eyes, lips, tight jeans, hot cologne, motor bikes, hot cars, 3-somes, porn, chocolate!!!”
Sometimes I Wonder If Myspace Whores Consider Themselves Cooler Than Friendster Whores
I stayed awake for hours agonizing over her contradictory nature. At first, looks weren’t important but now, a mere one paragraph later, Flirty Candy tells me her turn-ons include abs, asses and boobs.” If only I’d spent more time in the weight room and sprung for that pair of breast implants. Perhaps then she would be mine. Then again, I don’t wear tight jeans (might I suggest dragging a hipster out of The Cha Cha Lounge for that), nor do I wear hot cologne (pick up a Persian kid off Sunset) and I certainly don’t have a hot car (because Flirty Candy loves ghost-riding the whip).
Ultimately, it was okay. I recovered from my psychic meltdown a few hours later when I received a Friend Request from Liz, not to mention the tempting friend request from Mackenzie. Thank god for Myspace. Where else would I meet such high-quality women? J-Date? No thanks, I’ve got Tom as my friend and thousands of esteemed prostitutes dying to meet me. As for Flirty Candy, sure, I think about her sometimes, but I just don’t think we’re truly right for each other. In the meantime, I’ve messaged her to tell about a new man who I think might be right for her. A man who is also into, abs,asses, boobs, tongues, tattoos, piercings, soft skin, shaved down there, eyes, lips, tight jeans, hot cologne, motor bikes, hot cars, 3-somes, porn, chocolate!!!”
Perhaps she’s heard of him? He does it ALL for the Nookie.
With an estimated 50,000 copies purchased by members of NAMBLA, the eponymous debut from Rich Boy scored the #1 slot on the Soundscan charts last week, moving approximately 250,000 units total. While some have decried the unsavory politics of the North American Man/Boy Love Association, America’s chief pedophile defense organization, others maintain that Rich Boy and men who love to kiss boys are a perfectly natural pairing considering the ever-increasing ties between mainstream hip-hop and homo-eroticism at large. One such proponent of the link was NAMBLA president, Chester “The Molester” Rollins.
“When I first saw the album cover, I knew this was something that would interest our membership,” Rollins said. “All of our members love rich boys. Not to say that we don’t love poor boys too, but coupled with that oh-so-sexy cover shot of Rich Boy without his shirt off, this is an album that we knew our roster needed to jump on. Literally and figuratively.”
Vance Miller, Rich Boy’s A&R for Interscope Records seemed little troubled by Rich Boy’s burgeoning child molester fan base.
“Hey if child molesters want to support a talented artist like Rich Boy, we’re all for it. Sure, it’s a little weird that they want to cornhole an underage boy or two or 37, but hey, at least they don’t download music illegally. That’s the real crime,” Miller said.
How About We Throw Some Talent On That Bitch, Instead?
Arthur Fenster IV, a media critic, adjunct professor at Cal-State Chico and self-proclaimed “hip-hop scholar” expressed little surprise at NAMBLA’s adoption of Rich Boy as their new favorite hip-hop artist.
“To be honest, I’m surprised NAMBLA hasn’t been more involved in hip-hop before,” Fenster IV said. “From 50 Cent, to Ja Rule to L’il Wayne, it isn’t a real hip-hop album if it doesn’t involve a young muscular black man oiled up and shirtless posing next to an expensive car. Rich Boy is simply the latest in a proud tradition of homo-eroticism in hip-hop that stretches back all the way to 2002.”
Rich Boy himself seemed similarly non-plussed by the discovery of his NAMBLA fan-base.
“Damn right NAMBLA know Rich Boys and they know who’s the greatest reppin’ all us Rich Boys,” Rich Boy said. “I don’t give a fuck who likes my music as long as I get paid. Throw some dollars on that bitch! More Money + More Rims=Good.”
Though some naysayers predicted that the NAMBLA members would be disappointed, Chester “The Molester” Rollins, NAMBLA president spoke for the organization when he said that they are pleased with the album.
“From the name Rich Boy, to “Throw Some D’s” to “Boy Look Here,” to “Good Things” to “And I Love You” to “Touch That Ass” to my personal favorite,”Role Model” this album has homo-eroticism for days,” Rollins said. “You best believe I’ll throw some D’s on that bitch! And I’m not talking rims.”
Last week, it was the Afro. This week, I tackle the Afro’s Semitic cousin, The Jewfro, a hairstyle popularized by Jews in the 70s, yet one of the chosen hairstyle’s worn by the chosen people throughout eternity. Without further adieu, let’s get Jew-fro’ing.
10. Dustin Diamond/Screech
Oh Screech, you sex-taping home-losing weirdo. How far you’ve fallen. At one point in the early 90s, it was a certainty that if one flipped on NBC at roughly 10:00 a.m., they would be treated to the very excellent sight of Samuel J. Powers rocking Zubaz pants, a Jewfro and a pair of suspenders. If one doubts the sheer magnificence of Screech’s Jewfro, watch an episode of Saved By The Bell: The New Class, when Barton “Weasel” Wyzell futilely tried to play the role of the token hebe surrounded in a roomful of goys. Did it work? I think not. Of course, Screech and his Jewfro did much to make Jewish mothers proud. He got straight A’s in school, he was a polite and nice young gentleman. And he ultimately settled down with a nice Jewish girl, Violet Bickerstaff (played by fellow Tribeswoman, Tori Spelling). Though no doubt, his mom kvetched over why he hung out with the meshuggah Zack Morris.
9. Gabe Kaplan/Mr. Gabe Kotter I am reasonably certain that I am related to Gabe Kaplan. Sure, I have no tangible proof of this. However, if you look at photos of Kaplan in his “Welcome Back Kotter” prime versus pictures of my dad in his late 70’s “Disco Phase,” I am reasonably certain that you could not pick out who was who. The resemblance is uncanny, down to the mustache, Jewfro and penchant for cowboy attire. Believe you me, if I had a scanner, my father’s towering Jewfro would’ve placed high on this list. As for Kotter, he scores points not just for the sheer spherical perfection of the coiled mass atop his head, but for his dedication to teaching. Without Mr. Kotter and his foxy wife Julie, it is doubtful that the likes of Barbarino, Boom-Boom Washington and Horshack would’ve received a decent education. Not to mention mentored the marvelous Jewfrow of Mr. Juan Epstein. 8. Artie Ziff Artie loses points for violating Rule #1 of the Jewish faith: being bad with money. Sure, it was revealed on The Simpsons that “Busy Hands” Ziff made a fortune by the time Springfield High’s 10-Year Reunion rolled around. However, he managed to lose it all when his Internet company went bust. For shame, Ziff. For shame. Haven’t you ever heard of real estate and conservative mutual funds? Either way, Ziff’s a disgrace in many ways, but his ultimately redeeming quality is the magnificence of his Jewfro (not to mention his maroon Tuxedo). If you were a Jewish man alive in the year 1976, I am willing to be that you had one Ziff-like moment. And for that, Ziff was a man of his time. Nay, the man of his time.
7. Howard Stern
Sure, Stern’s coif nowadays appears to have settled into a Joey Ramone-esque Helfro, half afro, half helmet. But in the early 70s in his BU days, Stern had one of the more prodigious Jewfros in America. Fueled by his freakish 6′5 height (6′5″ is the Jewish 6′10), Stern’s Jewfro towered above the city of Boston and told the populace well in advance that this gangly, mushroom cloud-haired dude, would go onto bigger and better things. And some of them didn’t even have implants. Along the way, Stern emerged as the biggest radio personality of the last three decades. Why? Some say the power of shock-value, others might point to his crude but undeniable wit. I say, it was the power of his Jewfro.
6. Mark Spitz
The movie Airplane handled it best when the passenger asks for some “light reading” and the stewardess handles him a slim pamphlet titled: “Greatest Jewish Athletes.” But during the summer of 1972, a Jewfro’d wonder named Mark Spitz came out of nowhere to win 7 gold medals. Of course, it was swimming, which isn’t exactly like being on the entire starting 5 of the Dream Team, but hey, we’ll take what can get. And from 1972-74, Spitz was one of the most famous men in the United States. There was even talk that he might be the next James Bond (Roger Moore wisely got the role instead). Sure, Spitz’s hairstyle might not be a perfect Jewfro, but I’ll blame that on the chlorine.
5. Baruch SpinozaA Dutch philosopher of Jewish origin, Spinoza is considered one of the pioneers of the Jewfro, as well as being one of the great rationalists of 17th-century philosophy. By virtue of his magnum opus, the posthumous Ethics, he’s considered to be one of the definitive ethicists. According to Wikipedia, his writings, like those of his fellow rationalists, reveal considerable mathematical training and facility. A lens crafter by trade, an “exciting engineering field” at the time because of great discoveries being made by telescopes, the full effect of his work was realized only some time after his death, following the publication of his Opera Posthuma. He is now recognized as having laid the groundwork for the 18th century Enlightenment, and as a founder of modern biblical criticism. And all this, without the benefits of styling gel. Just think of how lustrous of a Jewfro Spinoza could’ve had if he were born in the 20th Century. I grow wistful just thinking of the squandered potential.
4. Lou Reed
Don’t be fooled by the all-black ensemble, the rock n’ roll pedigree and the sunglasses. This is a man born Lewis Allan Rabinowitz. That sounds like the name of a kid I used to mock at Hebrew School. Reed even went to Syracuse, got a degree in English and was mentored by a man named Delmore Schwartz. Oy. Yet he successfully repudiated himself from his upbringing, fronting one of the weirdest and greatest bands of all-time. Not bad. However, he thankfully never was able to repudiate himself from his Jewfro, always a dead giveaway that Reed didn’t roll on Shomer Shabbas. Indeed, his Jewfro was so superior, it almost makes up for Metal Machine Music.
Bongos, check. Banging Gongs, check. A scantily-clad girl riding on a motorcycle, check. Jewfro, check. Marc Bolan, the lead singer of the canonical Brit Glam-pop band T. Rex (and perhaps the man who Cam’ron is the re-incarnation of) had a short but undeniably brilliant career. Watch the video above. Understand why Bolan and his Jewfro were the biggest British act of the immediate post-Beatles era. See his resplendent, cork-screw hair. He might’ve died 30 years ago but the greatness of his music (and hair) lives on.2. Albert Einstein
I’ve heard this guy was like, good at science or something. Either way, great hair.
Watch this clip from the Dylan documentary Don’t Look Back as Dylan transfixes the room with a performance of “It’s All Over Now, Baby Blue.” Watch the look on Donovan’s face, a slight grimace as he nods along. Many people often point out that it’s a look of frustration is his realization that Dylan is obviously the far greater musician. I say they’re are wrong. The look on Donovan’s face is a look rooted in the realization that he was never a Bar-Mitzvah. And such, his subsequent attempts to Jew-Fro will be stymied by his flat, lifeless Scottish hair. The lift, flair, and panache of Dylan’s hair has zero shot of being achieved. Thus, his chances at immortality are forever denied.
I’ve lived in LA for a very long time. 25 years to be exact. And living in LA does strange things to a person. You start doing Yoga . You think nothing of ordering Diet Cokes in restaurants. You forget that water doesn’t only come in bottles. Of course, I’m not necessarily proud of these sad realities, however I can and will rationalize yoga by saying that it does incredible things for your hoop game. Nate Jones on the NBA did not bestow the nickname “Air Weiss” on me for nothing. And while it has infinitely less of ring to it than “Air Jordan,” it certainly has more of a ring to it than “Air Goodman.”
In addition to the unorthodox exercises and beverage choices, I have picked up another habit favored by the Angelenos: enjoying greek yogurt. So much that my refrigerator is now stocked with little else but Greek Yogurt, Trader Joe’s Chicken McNuggets and Trail Mix (blogging, of course, being the finest way to earn vast sums of income.)
But it wasn’t until the other day as I enjoyed this Grecian delicacy that I stumbled across a startling revelation. My yogurt was labeled “fage.” I didn’t need to be a smart-assed 5th grader on a playground to figure it out either. Sure, they might have gone through the trouble of changing the last two letters, but I’m no fool. I should’ve known better. After all, wasn’t it the movie Ghost World, where the Greek manager of the yogurt/convenience store proudly claimed: “We Greeks invented Democracy.” To which, Doug, the local white-trash nunchuks-sporting redneck responded: “you also invented homos.”
You Bet Your Sorry Ass Doug Doesn’t Eat Greek Yogurt
Of course, it’s not that there’s anything wrong with my yogurt, it’s just that I feel it wasn’t very up-front and open about its preferences. Even going as far to put a note on the label, claiming it’s pronounced: “fa-yeh.” Which is perhaps the worst mis-appropriation of a name since Martin Short tried to say his name was “Fra-hank” in Father of the Bride. And we all know which team that wedding coordinator was playing for. He was probably their starting shortstop.
Ultimately, my disappointment with my yogurt’s duplicity left me thinking that maybe LeBron James was right when he claimed: “If you’re a Greek Yogurt, you have to be trustworthy, and if you’re a gay Greek yogurt and you’re not admitting that you are, then you are not trustworthy. So that’s like the No. 1 thing between a man and his food supply—we all trust each other. You’ve heard of the in-refrigerator, dining room code: What happens in the dining room stays in there. It’s a trust factor, honestly. A big trust factor.”
C’mon, Greek Yogurt. There’s nothing wrong you being “fage.” It’s the year 2007. Most people are tolerant and willing to accept you for and your Grade A pasteurized milk and cream, regardless of how flamboyant or not flamboyant your packaging is. Sure, you might meet a few ignorant Tim Hardaway’s out there, but millions of Americans will continue to enjoy your tasteful product. Don’t be afraid, if Doogie Howser could come out, so can you. Be honest with yourself. Be proud of being “fage.” Don’t just go through the motions of telling everyone that you’re “fa-yeh.” You aren’t fooling anyone. Only yourself.
America. Every day it’s the same ol’ thing. You flip on the news and instead of serious measured debate, you get tabloid headlines. Anna Nicole Smith popped this. Britney Spears shaved that. Nicole Richie drove the wrong way on a freeway this. Paris Hilton snorted coke off a fat man on a tape that she left in a storage bin, that. God forbid, anyone attempts to bring up a serious topic like hairstyles of the 1970’s, and the media treats you like a Carrot-Topped stepchild. Indeed, what America needs most right now is a sober forum to discuss the hairstyles that have molded our consciousness (forum is unlikely to be sober). In the first of a hopefully short series, I present The Passion of the Weiss Guide to Hairstyles of the 70s: Volume I (The Afro.) Stay tuned for next week’s even more frivolous list: The 10 Greatest Jew-Fros of all time. 10. The Girl on the Cover of Maggot Brain I imagine the girl above somehow got to be the cover art girl (the old-school version of the video ho) after an afternoon spent with George Clinton trying to go Funkadelic on her in a forest with a basket full of magic mushrooms. Next thing they knew, mid-trip, they conceived the idea to bury her up to her neck and snap the shot for the cover of Maggot Brain. And you can’t blame ‘em. Sure, the crazed look in her eye makes you think she’s straight from of Tobin’s Spirit Guide. But the afro says take me…take me…take me to the mothership.
9. Jules Winfield (Pulp Fiction)Jules Winfield might have been written by Quentin Taratino in ‘94, but his afro says, “‘74.” He quotes the Book of Ezekial. He admires the fine taste of Big Kahuna burgers. He owns a wallet that says “bad mothafucka.” I don’t know why Sam Jackson bothered to re-make Shaft when this was even better. Yet even better than his acting chops were his mutton-chops (an essential part of a truly great afro.) Some might accuse Winfield of straying too close to the boundary between the afro and jheri curl, but ultimately, I say: afro (due to Winfield’s impressive lift and nearly perfect spherical shape.) You know what they call a haircut like this in France? They don’t call it a coif. They don’t call it a pompadour. Nor do they call it a royale with cheese. They just says its fucking awesome (or “magnifique” if you’re into that whole Gallic sort of thing).
8. The Lady of Rage I’m the one that’s throwin bolos, ya better roll a Rolo to find out I’m the number one solo, uhh The capital R-A now take it to the G-E I bring the things to light, but you still can’t see me I flow like a monthly you can’t cramp my style For those that try to punk me here’s a Pamprin child No need to say mo’, check the flow Rage in effect once mo’, so now ya know
I rock rough and stuff with my afro puffs (RAGE!)
Rock on witcha’ bad self
70s or 90s, quite frankly,I can’t argue with Rage? Why? Because when you think afro puffs, you think of her rocking on with her bad self.
7. The Jackson 5 Fuck critics. It wasn’t just Michael carrying the group. How dare one besmirch the fine name of Marlon, Tito, Jermaine and what’s the other one’s name, Randy? (oh, yes Jackie).
If they were truly untalented their afro’s would’ve wilted under the pressure of the spotlight. If we need to get critical, might I point out that little Michael had but the fourth best hair in the group (since demoted to fifth.)
Most scholars believe “You Made Me What I Am” from the Jackson 5’s seventh album, 1973’s Skywriter was written to their hairdresser. And after seeing those creepy photos of Michael hanging out in Bahrain with the flat-ironed straight hair, the entire damned world should sing “I Want You(r) (Afro) Back.”
6. Sly from Sly and the Family StoneIt’s hard for me to reconcile the difference between Sly and the ultra-magnetic, superfly, 1970’s afro that allowed him to croon “If You Want Me to Stay;” with his new blonde Mohawk that makes him look like a cross between Chris Tucker in the 5th element and Dennis Rodman circa 1996. I have two theories. The first is that when Sly chopped off his ‘fro he lost all of his powers and had to revert to a Syd Barret-like life of insanity and seclusion. That or he’s still doing lots and lots of drugs. 5. Cleopatra Jones This is the plot of Cleopatra Jones: A special agent (Cleopatra) assigned to eliminate drug-trafficking in the US and abroad, torches poppy fields in Turkey. This makes Mommy, a drug-lord played by Shelley Winters furious and she promises to destroy Jones. Mommy uses her link with corrupt officers on the force to stir up trouble for Jones’ friends and to set her up to be jumped. Meanwhile, Mommy has problems with some of her pushers, like the disloyal Doodlebug, played by Antonio Fargas.
Its sequel Cleopatra Jones and the Casino of Gold involves two men disappearing during an undercover mission in Hong Kong. Cleopatra travels there to find them. With the help of local detective Mi Ling, Cleopatra discovers that her friends’ disappearance has to do with The Dragon Lady, a much-feared blonde “lipstick lesbian” who runs a Macao casino and controls a major chunk of the local drug trade.
All the while Cleo, played by Tamara Dobson is rocking platforms and a picture-perfect afro that makes her stretch out to “6′2.” It’s like the poster says. Hottest. Superagent. Evar.
4. Pam Grier Circa 1973
I’m sure there are a few better things than Pam Grier, circa 1973, wearing just a bra, holding an shot gun in her palm. I’m just not sure what they are yet.
3. Dr. JNot only was Dr. J one of the 10 best basketball players of all-time, he probably had the greatest afro the game has ever seen. The only thing with more up-power than Erving’s incredible vertical leap was his sky-high afro (and Britney Spears). So iconic was Dr. J’s fro that it dominates any and all thoughts that someone under 40 has when they think about the ABA. Dismantling competition with effortless style and grace, Dr. J was so dominating that he won two ABA MVP’s despite the league’s short existence (and one with Philly in 1981). Add that to the fact that Julius had the best hair around and you will encounter few greater afros in the annals of afro-dom than Dr. J. Plus, along with a fish he managed to save the entire city of Pittsburgh.
2. Jimi Hendrix Many people mistakenly think a good afro (or jewfro) is about merely having a large tangled mass of hair on your head. I beg to differ. Don’t believe me? Then examine Mitch Mitchell and Noel Redding trying to fuck with Hendrix’s style. Indeed, a good afro isn’t merely about hair. There are other intangibles involved . Some may call it their “swag.” While others might declare that one just needs to look “fresh.” Needless to say, neither Mitchell nor Redding look fresh or full of swag (though they do look a bit groovy.) Hendrix practically invented the afro, pioneering a trend that would become the norm during the 70s. Oh yeah, and he’s also like good at music or something.
1. Oscar GambleIt is said that when Oscar Gamble’s wife, Juanita, saw him for the first time sans afro, she burst into tears. Such is the power of the great Oscar Charles Gamble, whose afro was so mighty that it was said to pop off his batting helmet at times. Unlike, the other great afro’d men and women on this list, Gamble did not need to excel at his chosen profession to become famous for his afro. There were no MVP’s for Gamble. No rock n’ roll Hall of Fame nods. No collaborations with Snoop Dogg (and the DOC). All Oscar Gamble needed was the sheer resplendence of his pure-like-artesian water afro. So pure in fact, that the little children in the Bronx used to refer to him as “el hombre con el pelo spectacular.” It was only when Yankee owner George Steinbrenner forced the issue, that Gamble agreed to chop it off. In its stead, he replaced it with a mullet.
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What are the odds of this being Halfway Decent? 13 to One.
However, despite her daughter’s request for Bright Eyes to be added to the cast, Beth Flournoy claimed that the film will be perfect, just the way it is.
