Cover, You're Ass

Just because New Times VVM is splattering about the sea of the Blogosphere, begging its writers to contribute to its ever-expanding list of crap blogs for little or no extra money, that doesn't mean it's ignoring the tried-and-true tenets of old school journalism, namely -- put some boobies on your cover! Congratulations, Phoenix New Times! That cover is ass!

Bylines? We Don't Need No Stinkin' Bylines

Are we back? Who knows. Is this a new post? It sure is. Here at AWDW, we are occasionally accused of not using bylines. Without dredging through those icky comments from months back -- in which ostensibly professional New Times VVM journalists sought to discredit our enterprise (which admittedly seeks to discredit theirs) by stomping around the playground screaming, "BYLINE! BYLINE! FAGGOT! MY DICK IS BIGGER THAN YOURS!" -- let us simply point you to a notable curiosity that occurred this week, in a piece where Mike Lacey flung poo at SF Bay Guardian honcho Bruce Brugmann for the umpteenth time. As it originally appeared online, Mr. Lacey's byline was sittin' right there, like so:















Then, shortly thereafter, it disappeared entirely. Like so:


Why would Mr. Lacey want to have his byline pulled? Could it be because the notion of a busy executive editor of a 17-paper chain (and such a dignified one at that) running around flinging poo at indisputably smaller competitors might be construed as, well, embarrassing? Who can say. At the time of this writing, the byline, like Bigfoot and New Times VVM's dignity, remain missing. If you have information leading to the whereabouts of any of these things, you know where to find us.

Bury Those Leads

New Times Village Voice Media is known for its punchy lead writing. A VVM lead doesn't just set the scene -- it grabs your tits by their balls and hurls you into it. Here's a smattering of recent favorites.

With a 9mm Beretta strapped to his chest, Iztok Plevnik opened the passenger door of the bulletproof, black sedan and climbed in. (*)

The gray-haired professor cracks his whip in mid-air. "Wake up back there!" he commands the two dozen folks lounging around on plush cream couches. (*)

Paul and Cheryl Anderson were sinking into their king-size bed late one night in the fall of 2004 when they heard a loud, ominous thump. (*)

The 120 dutiful souls who'd answered their jury summons on January 9 had been sitting in the historic Waxahachie courthouse listening to lawyers drone on for hours. Then suddenly things got weird. (*)

Only a bad acid trip or real life in Orange County could conjure up this question: Is there a relationship between pudgy, polyester-clad U.S. Representative Dana Rohrabacher, 59, and the “Wascally Wabbit Vibrator,” “Miracle Dick Pump,” “Paradise Pocket Pussy,” “Triple Clit Flicker,” “So Real 8-inch Dong,” “Aria’s Pussy and Ass Inflatable Doll” and such cinematic wonders as Sprachen ze Dick and Everybody Loves Big Boobies, Vol. 3?(*)

After nightfall, western Hollywood goes dark and an otherwise featureless horizon comes to be dominated, suddenly, by the Hollywood Hard Rock Hotel & Casino, the phosphorescent glow of its turrets visible for miles in every direction. (*)

After he got sprayed with a face full blood while on the job last month, Minneapolis sewer work Ron Huebner—like a lot of the people who heard about the incident— responded with a mix of shock and repulsion. (*)

When Donna Dennis swung her legs over the side of her bed, planted her feet on the carpet, and took a few steps on New Year's Day 2004 — which just happened to be her birthday — she knew something was dreadfully awry. (*)

Shauntay Henderson sauntered past the TV cameras with a sly smile on her face just three days after she was arrested March 31 by Kansas City, Missouri, police. The 24-year-old had reason to gloat: She's among a very choice group of women criminals. (*)

Keith Hardine is a tall, fit African-American with a big smile; he looks not unlike a younger Ernie Hudson circa Ghostbusters, or Larry Elder if he hit the gym a little more. He shakes my hand and gives me some pepper spray. Hardine is about to teach me how to defend myself against Mexicans. (*)

Bury Those Leads

New Times Village Voice Media is known for its punchy lead writing. A VVM lead doesn't just set the scene -- it grabs your tits by their balls and hurls you into it. Here's a smattering of this week's best.

On the night of January 27, 2003, Danny Holmes and Shawn Hamre stood outside a prostitute's door at an apartment building at 16 West 37th Street. (*)

You have to be Michael to understand. (*)

The first time Alana McCoy was labeled a dyke, the sophomore was walking back to her car in a Regis University parking lot. (*)

"Why say no when it's so much easier to say yes?" (*)

A certified wingnut runs around screaming on the corner of Telegraph and Durant avenues in South Berkeley, his underwear outside his clothes, a toy medieval shield in one hand, a toy axe in the other. (*)

The VIP card is a delicate and dangerous thing. (*)

People in the Bay Area are so busy mapping a fungus genome or rolling out the next digital porn platform that they rarely notice they still live amid two of the Great Society's most notable accomplishments: concentrated urban poverty and bureaucratic ineptitude. (*)

Felix Ellis is alone now. His wife, Genevieve, isn't around to make his favorite bread pudding. (*)

Steve Bison of Alabama's Cherokee River Indian Community says the war over 4-year-old Raven Laws may be traced back to the legendary Battle of Horseshoe Bend. (*)

Nima Daivari looked very gay on the night of March 17. (*)

Of all Southern hip-hop's flavors, none captures the lazy pace of an oppressively hot and humid day in the big dirty as well as screw music. (*)

With a deafening drone the airboat sped north. (*)

On Tuesday, February 27, Constable Mike Dupree abruptly left for vacation just hours after Dallas County commissioners ordered an outside investigation of his office after three employees said that the openly gay elected official was a little too openly gay, claiming that he came on to the younger Hispanics on his staff and touched them inappropriately. (*)

Ever wonder what Kansas should smell like? (*)

Ward Regan lived in 61A. In 1999, Greg Abbey moved into 66A. Abbey was depressed. Regan didn't notice. Abbey wanted to be alone. Regan didn't care. Abbey tried to avoid Regan. Regan, a big fan of Seinfeld, adopted Kramer-esque tendencies and showed up uninvited to Abbey's apartment in boxer shorts to watch his cable TV. After getting over finding Regan in his bathtub—more spacious than his own—Abbey finally warmed up to his oddly instrusive neighbor and discovered they had a common interest: cartoons. (*)

The two private Learjets landed at Key West International Airport. (*)

You have to be Michael to understand. (*)

AAN your point is ...?

Here is the wrap-up on the Association of Alternative Newsweeklies web site of the group's West Coast conference:

San Francisco was invaded by 261 enthusiastic newspaper professionals last weekend when the AAN West conference hit town. Seminars were held at the Holiday Inn Golden Gateway hotel, which provided lovely views of the city to members who stayed overnight. (Although we did hear complaints that the conference rooms were a wee bit chilly.)

Did the term "enthusiastic newspaper professionals" catch your eye, too? Either AAN is allowing its interns to employ sarcasm now, or this has become the new PC term for out-of-touch middle-aged white guys who flaunt their sweaty desperation through soul patches, blazer-and-jeans ensembles, and credulity-stretching allusions to "crazy" nights on coke.

Hey, man: While all those straight-laced mainstream journalists were hanging out in the lobbies of swank Baghdad hotels, dreading the next time they draw the pool assignment, dulling their fears of kidnapping with cut-rate hash, the heavy-hitting brass of the nation's alt-weeklies, ever prowling the front lines of reality, were disappointed to discover that the meeting rooms at the Holiday Inn Golden Gateway required a sweater. Or at least a heavy shirt.