…in domestic mainstream media, has a cogent long review of the Paul O’Neill and Kevin Phillips anti-Bush books.

Someone at Slashdot, in a comment that seems to have scrolled off the site, wrote:

“In a country where it’s okay to fry mentally ill people to death, let any eejit carry a gun, consume a huge proportion of the world’s resources and invade a country for dubious reasons, exposing a bit of human flesh is greeted with the sort of outrage that you’d think would be reserved for the end of the world.”

Of course, that’s the whole point. The right-wing sleaze machine loves violence (physical, verbal, emotional, etc.) and loathes sex (especially pleasurable, loving, or otherwise “girly” sex).

And the youth-marketing industry, which devised the Super Bowl halftime and most of the Super Bowl commercials, loves everything hard and “edgy” and hates anything soft and subtle. Faced with record-low TV viewership levels among the corporately-prized young male demographic, marketers are trying to outdo one another in vulgarity and desperation. It’s not that their audiences want this; it’s what they, the marketers, want their would-be audiences to want.

So, in the commercials, we got “jokes” about the following: A farting horse, little children saying a bleeped-out cussword, a wheelchair crash, a dog biting a man’s testicles, a talking monkey hitting on a woman, an old man beating an old woman, a football referee refusing to talk to a nagging wife, a man getting an unexpected bikini wax, and the very idea that a skinny man could love a heavy woman. All of these were just fine-‘n’-dandy with CBS and the NFL. (As were the two erectile-dysfunction-drug commercials, one of which included explicit language.)

In a further attempt to attract young nonviewers, CBS turned the halftime festivities over to sister company MTV. It staged a predictably rude and trite affair with mercifully short performances by has-beens Kid Rock, P. Diddy, Justin Timberlake, and Janet Jackson. Aside from Jackson’s reprise of the oldie “Rhythm Nation,” all the lyrics were about rude dudes boasting of their sexual-conquistadory prowess. Again, all that was OK’d in advance by all concerned.

Then, in the last dance move of the show, Timberlake (a mediocre dancer-singer known primarily for his write-ups in the gossip pages as the first boy to spear Britney) ripped open Jackson’s tear-away blouse and, officially “accidentally,” slipped her bra off as well.

This is far from the first “costume accident” on broadcast TV. (Remember Lucy Lawless’s rendition of the U.S. national anthem at a hockey game back in ’99?)

And CBS has been willing to show seminude women in recent years–as C.S.I. corpses, or as Chicago Hope hospital patients. And the network runs the Victoria’s Secret Fashion Show, but that’s all edgy and teasy, the way the Super Bowl was supposed to be.

But, like that other youth-marketing vehicle Maxim, rude-‘n’-crude’s OK, but pure physical beauty’s taboo beyond taboo.

Jeff Laurie at Sex News Daily claims the Jackson flash was newsworthy because “like most breasts, it’s scarce, and seeing it is getting a sneak peak at the forbidden fruit.” Uncovered breasts, of course, are far less scarce than they used to be. They’re in fashion magazines, in Oscar-winning movies, on Emmy-winning cable shows, and all over the Internet. But they’re not in “edgy” youth marketing, which is all about forever teasing and never pleasing.

And they’re not in the right-wing bombast culture, forever stuck in the sixth-grade notion that boys who like to blow stuff up are Real Men, but that boys who like girls are faggots.

So now we have, as a blatantly cynical election-year stunt, the Bush FCC promising a swift and thorough investigation into the incident; all while the Bushies keep stalling about 9/11, the Cheney energy plan, and the lack of real causes for invading Iraq.

What does it all prove? That in a supposedly sexed-up pop culture, one of the purest, simplest forms of sexual expression still threatens certain powerful interests–precisely because it threatens the premises of their power.

It looks increasingly possible after Tuesday’s primaries and caucuses in seven states. The candidate was so confident about those contests, he (and Dean) came here, to rally the respective faithful for our own caucuses on Saturday.

The Kerry rally at the Sheraton ran late, as these things usually do. It was scheduled for 7:30, but at 8:15 people were still being herded into the big ballroom. Inside, the event turned out to be the Kerry & Gary Show, with Gov. Locke (seen here to Kerry’s right) introducing the candidate and warming up the crowd.

Kerry’s speech was standard boilerplate stuff. Get a decent health-care system, save the environment, stop sucking up to “Benedict Arnold CEOs,” dump Ashcroft, get some integrity back in D.C., elect a president who’s been on an aircraft carrier for real, bring it on. Some of the comments by audience members were more telling, particularly the catty talks about other audience members who showed up with Dean buttons.

One thing was sure: From certain angles, he looks remarkably like Jon Stewart, or maybe Clutch Cargo. On CNN later that night, the panels-O-pundits (particularly Mo Rocca and Wolf Blitzer) couldn’t get over how Kerry’s emerged as the most manly Democratic candidate in many an election cycle. Thankfully, CNN hasn’t switched to HDTV yet, so you had to imagine Mo and Wolf salivating and sweating at the thought of ol’ Ketchup Boy’s eyebrows, his dimples, his rugged war-hero shoulders.

The other thing I noticed on CNN Tuesday night: Everyone who mentioned Kerry’s speech on the channel used the annoyingly belittling qualifier “Seattle, WASHINGTON,” except, thankfully, for local-boy-gone-big Aaron Brown.

A KIND READER thought some of the rest of you, particularly out-O-towners, might enjoy this P-I piece about the Mac programmers at Microsoft.

MORE KUDOS are due-dos to Seattle Weekly, for Rick Anderson’s just-plain-lovely ode to that dying institution, the dive tavern.

Seattle Weekly’s had two strong cover stories in a row.

This week’s piece by Tim Appelo wondering why Ken Kesey ceased to be a great writer expressed (and, thankfully, didn’t try to fully answer) all the questions I had when Kesey died and all the obits ran paragraph after paragraph about his drugging and drinking and only a couple of sentences about his writing.

Appelo’s piece followed Philip Dawdy’s long, haunting pontification about last summer’s suicide by beloved KUOW personality Cynthia Doyon. We’re just a couple of months away from what will probably be a string of media hype pieces marking ten years since Kurt Cobain’s death. We seem not to have learned a damned thing since then about taking care of ourselves or one another.

“Clinic,” the weekly live-music showcase at Re-bar, is still going on, despite the decline and fall of its co-sponsor Tablet.

Tuesday night’s edition went like they all did. Three bands played (pictured below: the unabashed loudness that is The Octabites). An improv troupe of “naughty nurses” told a few jokes and mingled among the crowd, passing out promotional tchotchkes for Tablet and Toys in Babeland.

After three years and change, the last fortnightly Tablet tabloid is out. Officially, the soft ad market did it in, along with its also-ran status in the local “alt” media universe and its confusing every-other-week schedule. But I’d add that the paper’s concept was contradictory from the get-go.

It never paid its writers a cent; expecting them to work just for the privilege of getting their statements made.

But, aside from a few political conspiracy-corner columns (which never challenged the orthodox-“radical” views of the paper’s target audience), its content was almost uniformly perky and light. The rag acted as if it was daring and rebellious by printing only positive reviews and by running lotsa puff pieces for advertisers.

In the end, Tablet had become a thin publicity sheet, not a true “alternative” at all. Its instigators plan to resurface later this spring in a monthly “magazine” format (no, I don’t know what that means) selling ads to both Seattle and Portland youth-culture businesses. I wish them success, and hope they’ll use the opportunity to reformulate their approach.

…has gone too darn far.

I AGREE COMPLETELY with Mark Rahner: The biggest threat from the mad-cow scare is having to face the smug crowing of fundamentalist vegans. Four close acquaintances have either emailed me vegan sermons or personally taken me to “raw food” restaurants for ice-cold carrot-and-eggplant soup. They remain close acquaintances, but they haven’t converted me.

Yes, the meat-processing industry’s rife with corruption and shoddy “efficiency” practices. But I’m not going to protest sweatshop clothing factories by walking around naked; at least not when it’s twenty degrees outside.

IMAGINE: Some pundits are actually calling Bush-bashing an irrational act of hatred. Silly pundits…

VOTE FOR YOUR FAVORITE anti-Bush commercial. Just don’t complain that your vote wasn’t counted.

IF YOU BELIEVE a Murdoch tabloid’s account of a Stanford research study, women are indeed turned on by porn videos after all! Just not by skanky, silicone-y ones.

It ran a list of whom it thinks are today’s 40 best film directors. David Lynch made #1; the Coen Bros., Michael Moore, Errol Morris, Hayao Miyazaki (Spirited Away), David Cronenberg, Todd Haynes, and Gus Van Sant are also on it; and Spielberg isn’t!

…starts pondering whether TV viewership’s in a death spiral, at least among the young-adult-male demographic all the advertisters want, you’ve gotta wonder if it just might be true. On the other hand, the ABCNews.com article herein linked reads like one of those overblown instant-trend stories seen all over the newspaper living sections, stories that often prove not to be as universally prophetic as they say they are.

Yet the question may still be begged: Is network TV, as we know it, a lumbering dinosaur of a business? Sometimes, such as when Fear Factor or Joe Millionaire is on, it sure seems that way. Other times, such as when King of the Hill or Letterman is on, it still seems like it’s got some of its old industrial-age oomph left in it. Then there are times, such as when a soon-to-be-forgotten rote show like I’m With Her is on, when it seems too far gone to even worry about, like a cool old-time restaurant you never go to anymore but you’d greatly mourn if it went under.

…but here high atop MISC World HQ we’re sitting high-N-dry, watching the rain and flooding footage on cable, avoiding anything to do with the World Series, and pondering what kind of age we live in that finds both Rush Limbaugh and Courtney Love popping the same drugs.