I wouldn't even subject Marls to that monstrosity, which apparently is an actual thing. According to a spokesman for Great Wolf Lodge who wouldn't identify himself (we know it's a dude because women have more common sense than to allow themselves to be associated with fuckery of this nature), “The shake starts with a vanilla ice cream base, so it’s still sweet and creamy, while the ranch adds a tangy twist that creates a surprisingly delicious combination."
To which we say, just because you can do something doesn't mean you should do it.
Creating space for running commentary on Mendozapalooza. And it's Husky Gameday, so a filler twofer for your social media pleasure. Kids go on road to Commanders great (and current Bengal) Jonathan Allen's alma mater (in the same town as the Commanders' training facility) to take on a foe from a larger classification.
Our Huskies are pretty chill, but do enjoy these huskies doing husky things.
I was reminded of that last week when Bo recorded a pair of podcasts remembering the Purple One. And I remembered listening to Prince on SiriusXM with my kids on a long car ride - was likely their first extended exposure, and the first time in more than a decade that I really dug into the genius' catalog.
Jones' podcasts got me thinking about Prince's music. In particular, my favorite of his songs. The ones he recorded, not the ones he wrote - that list is far too long to contemplate. So I set a challenge that's described by the title of this post. I decided to pick my five favorite Prince songs.
I'll get to the list in a minute. Couple of explanatory notes first. My faves are gonna tilt heavily to his early records (one in particular), or at least from "1999" forward. That's when I was turned on to his stuff, and when I spent the most time with it. I leaned hard into progressive tunes when I first heard The Smiths' "Louder Than Bombs" in 1987, and didn't get back around to Prince until much later. And I never really got into his post-"Love Symbol" records. So we're really only talking about "Dirty Mind" in 1980 through the aforementioned Symbol in 1992 as the consideration set.
And it's still fucking hard to pick just five songs.
For fuck's sake, the list doesn't include When You Were Mine, Uptown, 1999, Delirious, Let's Go Crazy, Darlin' Nikki, Purple Rain, Raspberry Beret, Pop Life, Kiss, Sign O' the Times, U Got the Look, If I Was Your Girlfriend, I Could Never Take the Place of Your Man, Gett Off, Erotic City, and Sexy MF, among a lot of others.
If you're a connoisseur, you could probably figure out my top five from the omissions above. Because I'm a man of the people, I'll make it easy for you.
In no particular order, my top five Prince songs:
In the fall of 1984, I was a painfully naive young lad coming to terms with my utter inability to talk to/attract girls at the same time that I was completely enamored of them. In the basement of a friend's house, a mixed group danced to "Purple Rain", and the girls went nuts when I Would Die 4 U came on. That was the very first time I ever danced with a girl. It left a mark. Music as memory, as we've discussed at length here before. (And I was this week old before I realized it was about Jesus.)
I'd heard Little Red Corvette many times before I caught onto the way its fundamental raunchiness masked the vulnerability of a dude not quite sure he was gonna measure up. But when I got it, I certainly got it, though it didn't help with that previously noted naïveté with the ladies. Corvette edges out its thematic cousin Raspberry Beret because it's just that much sexier.
The chronologically latest song on my list hit me out of the blue in 1992 upon the release of the "Love Symbol" album. 7 didn't sound like any Prince tune I'd heard before, but its chorus got me right in the tuning fork in my chest. It's definitely the wild card on this list.
I'd argue that Prince's guitar virtuosity was an under-discussed topic until relatively recently. Folks focused on his hypersexy lyrics, funky grooves, brilliant live shows, and prolific musicianship. But "Purple Rain" is a guitar-forward record, and the opening lick of When Doves Cry is a damn call to arms.
Returning to a theme for our final tune, Purple Rain showed that shy and clueless young man a glimpse of something entirely new. In the short term, it accelerated feelings of longing for amorphous but assuredly sexy and sweaty and not at all dorky possibility. Take Me With U felt like that kid asking a more mature, experienced and cute girl for a favor. And that seemed very real at the time.
This version has a naaaasty guitar solo.
And as a lagniappe to keep the groove rolling, get some of his 1985 live show from Syracuse. It's fucking bonkers. In the best way.
We might need a NOS music label because I have another NOS album for you. Dave wrote about Zamrock previously, here and at SOD, after spending eight hours in a car with me listening to lots of different music. And I wrote about new old stock music a few weeks ago. As luck would have it, Now-Again Records (remember the Whitefield Brothers?) just released a new old stock Zamrock album from Ngozi Family, "Gate Crash '78." Here's the story:
I sing the body eclectic this fine Sunday morning, with a trio of tunes I've heard and liked recently.
The first one's gonna be smack in Rootsy's wheelhouse, but all of y'all rock and rollers owe the artist a debt, because he inspired just about everyone in the game, directly or not. In 1936 and1937, Robert Johnson laid down 29 tracks across two sessions with producer Don Law. Most of us have heard the scratchy recordings of those sessions that survive to the modern day.
But recently, someone discovered a metal master of "Cross Road Blues" that may have been pressed in 1940. And it's crystal clear. Here's some musical history for you:
Veering wildly to the modern day, someone I owe a debt to went to the lab and created a band tuned perfectly to my frequencies. I give you Chicago's own Ratboys.
And back, somewhat, to the middle. An appreciation of an artist I came to through my youngest who I very much enjoy. Harry Styles' new record is both grown up and backwards-looking. My kidlet says this one sounds like One Direction (complimentary).
Reporting has never been glamorous, no matter how many exotic locations Christiane Amanpour broadcasts from, Robert Redford and Dustin Hoffman movie portrayals, or how smart and clever Katharine Hepburn was in “Woman of the Year.” The work is challenging and rewarding – though usually in ways not tied to earnings – as well as time consuming and tedious. Information is vital for a functioning society, but being nosy for a living has no shortage of detractors.
The news business has been under assault for some time, with newspapers strip-mined and shuttered, and the corporate enshittification of various news outlets in service to profits and power.
Discouraging as outside incursions are, it’s the “own goals” that are often more galling. Which brings us to the Dianna Russini-Mike Vrabel contretemps.
Russini is the former Bigfoot NFL reporter-turned-insider for The Athletic, Vrabel the coach of the Boston-based Kraft Family Football Collective. The New York Post ran photos of them holding hands, hot tubbing and hugging at a luxury resort in Sedona, Ariz., late last month, and a source said they were on a private bungalow rooftop and that they briefly danced together.
Russini and Vrabel both denied that anything tawdry occurred and said that both were there with and around other people, though none were seen in any of the photos. Further complicating matters is that both are married, though not to each other.
Russini’s boss vigorously defended her in the immediate aftermath but started an investigation into the episode. When she tried to get back to her job and floated a piece of NFL news, she was swamped with disgusting replies. Earlier this week she resigned.
In a letter to her boss that went public, she admitted nothing and leaned heavily into the idea of separating herself from the runaway train of speculation by outsiders. She wrote that she resigned “not because I accept the narrative that has been constructed around this episode, but because I refuse to lend it further oxygen or to let it define me or my career.” She decried media speculation “unmoored from the facts” and a media frenzy “hurtling forward without regard for the review process” and “I have no interest in submitting to a public inquiry that has already caused far more damage than I am willing to accept.”
Notably absent is a sentence in which she takes responsibility for the unprofessional appearance of the situation, or a straight denial that anything illicit took place. A resignation letter full of righteous outrage that highlights “process” and personal insult falls short of persuasive.
Access is oxygen for reporters. There’s all manner of gaining access to sources, ethical and unethical and many shades of gray in between. The best reporters, I’d say most reporters, cultivate it through scrupulous work and fair and knowledgeable treatment of subjects, often over years. There are plenty whose standards are lower, who play favorites and trade flattering stories or planted pieces for nuggets and scoops. Still others debase themselves ethically and essentially pay for stories and access in numerous ways.
I’m in no position to judge what kind of reporter Russini is, only that she’s done the job for years for prominent shops and that people talk to her. She comes across as personable and engaging. What I’m comfortable saying is that she did the profession, and particularly female reporters, no favors. Even if she didn’t violate the cardinal rule of “Don’t Fuck Your Sources,” she provided fodder for misogynistic troglodytes who generally think women must have slept their way into high-profile jobs.
Parenthetically, she also provided an example of the double standard applied to men and women in a symbiotic work environment, particularly one that’s male dominant.
Russini resigned from her job, and might have been turfed after the Athletic’s investigation, while it’s likely that the only repercussions Vrabel will endure will be from Mrs. Vrabel. The NFL has made it clear that it cares about the character and behavior of players and coaches only when it damages The Shield and its image. A few suggestive pics of a coach and reporter barely move the needle.
Not that there's anything wrong with that. McVey is a handsome fella.
I think it’s safe to say that the fallout would be different if pics surfaced of Adam Schefter and Sean McVay holding hands and gazing longingly into each other’s eyes over a shared bruschetta (apologies for that image). [ED NOTE: We'll add here that the aforementioned Schefter admitted to sharing a draft of a story with a source to allow for editing, which is a fairly egregious breach of standards, as well. He kept his job.] That said, Russini, and reporters in general, must be held to a higher standard simply because of the nature of the work. News outlets’ sole currency is credibility. Once that’s damaged or up for question, it broad brush compromises not only the reporter but the entire organization. If people suspect that an outlet went low to land a scoop, or if a subject or reporter has an agenda beyond simply providing information and insight, the gig is toast.
Who and what else can no longer be trusted?
Reporters’ favorability has been underwater for years. A 2024 Gallup Poll found that only 17 percent of those surveyed thought newspaper reporters had high honesty and ethics and 45 percent of respondents said those reporters had low or extremely low honesty and ethics. They fared slightly better than TV reporters, whose numbers (13 percent high, 55 percent low) were better only than members of Congress and lobbyists. Even Redford and Hoffman can’t help that.
So, Russini takes a professional hit for, at the very least, incredibly poor judgment. Meanwhile, Vrabel goes back to prepping for the upcoming draft and footballing in general. Fair? Nope. They were co-equal participants in an indiscreet encounter. Questions about what exactly transpired and the nature of their relationship are valid, given the positions both hold – or in her case, held. What it becomes is another cautionary tale for women dealing with men in positions of power and another example of how the playing field is never level.
This one's gonna get me in some hot water, but let's do this.
Gheorghies, I know there are many among the sensible party that have been offended by the recent post offering up graphic depictions of His Royal Scumbucket DJT as Jesus. Well, let me tell--
Actually. before I get into that, I mention the "sensible party" off the cuff, but really what informed that phrase was a sketch from an episode of Monty Python's Flying Circus in November 1970. It's called "Election Night Special," it features the Sensible Party vs the Silly Party (along with lesser parties the Slightly Silly Party and the Very Silly Party), and it's great fun.
In 1987 the Pythons issued a compilation audio album called The Final Rip-Off, which it wasn't, and my freshman roomie Dougie Fish and I wore the discs out when he purchased it the following year. Here's the original TV episode:
Sure does seem like Jethro Q. Walrustiddy would have a place in the current cabinet, eh?
Anyway, Trump as Jesus.
I'll be honest with you: I don't get the hysteria. He's super into self-aggrandizing AI art. I mean, it's only a matter of time before Trumpkin illustrates himself as Wardy "Wood" Joubert III, right? If he hasn't done it already.
So what's the big deal with this?
And honestly, he has a lot more in common with Jesus than other iconic characters whose persona he's assumed. You want proof?
He is well-known to offer crazy quotes like:
"Nobody fucks with the Trump."
"Let me tell you something, pendejo... You pull any of your crazy shit with us, you flash a piece out on the White House lawn, I'll take it away from you, and stick it up my ass and pull the fucking trigger 'til it goes 'click'."
"Are you ready to be fucked, Iran? ... JD and me, we're gonna fuck you up."
"I would have fucked you in the ass Saturday. I fuck you in the ass next Wednesday instead. Wooo!"
Donald Trump is also a known sex offender. I'm not sure about eight-year-olds, but he's a sexual assaulter with established ties to the most infamous pederast in all the land.
Trump is the Jesus. To wit:
Oh!
Jesus Quintana, not Christ. Goodness, no!
He's the opposite of that, although getting millions of people to listen to him verbally soil himself daily is a miracle.
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