Respect Authority

If ever there was a place to go all Columbine, this is it.

Let me start by saying that I am far from trendy. Which isn’t to say that I consider myself “above” the latest in fashion, so much as I’m a victim of probability: When any new fad emerges, chances are high I can’t afford it, and don’t look good in it (see: skinny jeans, neon and outerwear that isn’t black wool). But even 20-somethings who may or may not own and wear to work a pair of black capri pants purchased for $10 at Wal-Mart can tell when a trend is being revived. After all, I’ve lived through the 80s, most of them at least. I remember our multi-year obsession with plaid, and the point at which I discovered flares were not only popular, but far more flattering to the thunder thigh. And when hipsters emerged a few years back with neon Wayfarers, vests and Keds, I—like everyone else—smiled condescendingly at the thought that anyone with greasy hair and a Williamsburg apartment thought they were breaking fashion ground.

So I was fairly shocked to discover on Thrillist, an online men’s guide to all things trendy, a promo for designer Franklin and Gower touting the labels’ familiarly decorated pants. If memory serves, and it does because there was a brief period where I exclusively owned pants with stripes down the side, this trend is older than time. And by that I mean about a decade. For a fleeting moment in the midst of my middle school career, side-striped pants were, put bluntly, the shit. I had some flares with a red and white stripe, some wide-legged jeans with a blue and white one, and some bell-bottoms with a (retrospectively) regrettable flower pattern. I owned this trend.

I have no way of knowing whether the reincarnated stripey pants are selling like hotcakes, or like what they are: an exceedingly flamboyant knock-off of a 90s trend. But if I had known that my l.e.i. wide-legs could sell for $185 today, I probably would have held on to them.

During my daily travels across the world wide web, I stumbled upon this optical illusion. The problem? To me… it isn’t one. The only thing it’s been able to trick me into is eye strain.

I get the vague sense that something is happening, but its ethereal and lurking in the shadows of my mind. I don’t know if I just need to take another hit of this optical illusion shit or what, but I feel like I’m missing out on the party.

Can you see it? Am I a big loser for not being able to? Or, perhaps more importantly, am I just a big loser for caring?

So what if it’s been sort of a squirrely week here at RA… eat my nuts.

There is an extremely high probability that this is a fake — but my god, just imagine how incredible the world would suddenly be if it wasn’t? And that’s exactly why this is the best science fiction film to come out all summer. Forget Star Trek, and Terminator, and Transformers — not even a huge pair of swinging Decepticon testicles tea-bagging preteen audiences in face-melting IMAX theaters all across the country can match the level of fun contained in a mere 24 seconds of this streaming video.

Now… if only it was in Disney Digital 3D, this would be setting major precedents in the genre for the first time since The Matrix. And honestly, at this point, I’d gladly trade quarter-mile-long crocodile miles in all of my big-budget action films over dudes barrel-rolling their way past a barrage of bullets all the goddamned fucking time. At least it’d be something new.

Free at last.

The news is filled with scandal these days. Washington D.C. plans to offer STD testing in all of its high schools, Michael Douglas’ son was busted on drug charges (insert Traffic reference here), and with Sarah Palin’s resignation taking a toll on her ability to troll for Soviet-inspired terrorism, Russian submarines are already overstaying their welcome off the shores of the east coast.

But all of that pales in comparison to what’s going on in California: no, not the imminent decriminalization and possible legalization of marijuana, or the fact that the state’s been paying off its IOUs with more IOUs. No, the big question for California is whether or not it’s about to become the world’s next Australia, minus the kangaroos and slew of attractive movie stars. This week, a panel of federal judges ordered the state’s prison system to reduce its inmate population of 150,000 by 40,000, around 27%, over the next two years.

Like New York, California is notorious for its overflowing prisons, bolstered by low-level drug offenses and the state’s infamous three strikes policy. Reducing the inmnate demographic by 27% is no small feat, and state officials only have 45 days to come up with a plan. Naturally, we at RA have taken it upon ourselves to offer a few suggestions for what to do when presented with 40,000 newly freed ex-convicts. Read More ›

You know you have a problem when your “back from vacation” To Do list has “Catch up on television” right after “Deal with 900+ work-related e-mails.” So it was with some trepidation, and no small amount of shame, that I set about tackling the hours of reality and non-reality fare I missed during my weeklong sojourn to the Jersey shore. Proud of this dedication I am not.

In the world of recurring shows, I didn’t miss much. Charm School ended its completely underwhelming run. Risky took the $100,000 prize, with which she plans to start a charity for children with incarcerated parents, a far cry from first-season winner Saaphyri’s ambitions of starting her own line of “lip chap.” So I guess progress is being made. On Daisy of Love, Daisy glossed over actually endearing though eerily tan Flex in favor of London, who was actually kicked off weeks ago but returned to steal his prize about three episodes back. Far better than watching Daisy make the predictable choice was witnessing her dismissal of reality-show veteran 12 Pack, who proceeded to attempt the closest approximation at crying a man can accomplish on steroids. Truly touching. On NYC Prep, Bravo came ever closer to revealing the overtly obvious gayness of its main character, and on Real World, there was more fighting, flirting, drinking and fighting and flirting while drinking.

No, the real gems of the week past came in the form of new shows, which I might have otherwise dutifully reviewed individually but will instead round up in one massive reality-show tirade.

MORE TO LOVE: Ever since Fox began promoting this “The Bachelor for fat people” reality series, I’ve been waiting with something close to impatience for the show to debut. As it turns out, my gleeful anticipation was not in vain; More to Love is pretty much everything I hoped for, and then some (Get it? More?). About half of the premiere episode was devoted to meeting the 20 ladies who will be vying for the heart of real estate developer Luke. Ever-classy, Fox made sure to display not only participants’ names and occupations, but also heights and weights, because there’s no faster fast track to self-confidence than total disclosure. The cast showed considerable diversity; although all of the women are “big,” the body types range from unimpressively average to downright obese. Some had sob stories about being judged based on their appearances, others spoke pragmatically about the frustrations of being the overweight girl amongst skinny friends, and still others unabashedly claimed confidence in their full figure. One even joked that, as an Iowa native, she might teach our chubby bachelor “how to milk a cow.” I’m pretty sure no pun was intended, but kudos to Luke for not even cracking a smile. This show promises to induce both sympathy and laughter in equal measures.

MEGAN WANTS A MILLIONAIRE: VH1’s answer to filling the Charm School time slot, Megan Wants a Millionaire is exactly what I would have come up with if asked to develop a new show with minimal innovation and maximum potential. Megan, of Rock of Love, Charm School and I Love Money fame (to say nothing of Playboy or Beauty and the Geek), has reprised her collection of barely-there bikinis and stripper dresses in an effort to woo some 20 bachelor millionaires, each of whom is either looking for love (unlikely) or expensive eye candy (probable). Though Megan’s high-pitched voice and minimal brain power make her contributions to the show satisfactory at best (VH1 was smart to keep the episodes at a half hour), the diversity and sheer desperation of the show’s men make it wildly entertaining. I have no doubt that Megan will oust one dud after another, starting with the heinously ugly and culminating with the elderly, crazy or retarded. In truth, there are only a handful of men participating who, wealth aside, might be in any way conceivable as romantic partners for any woman, let alone one of Megan’s physical attributes. That said, watching this rather pathetic cast of freaks court our model turned-reality-star is inherently satisfying; Megan, who had probably pictured a sea of gorgeous 30-something moguls, is instead doomed to at least a month of schmoozing with the detritus of the wealthy world. (See Donald).

REAL CHANCE OF LOVE 2: I suspect the first incarnation of this show was one of VH1’s most underrated reality endeavors. While dating competitions involving Daisy, Megan, or even Bret Michaels fail to amuse except in the completely exploitative sense, Real and Chance combine exploitation with, well, good old-fashioned comedy. There are key elements of this show’s premise about which I’m still unsure: Are Real and Chance even vaguely interested in actual love? Are The Stallionaires really musicians? Where do they find these women? But ultimately, none of the answers matter. Throw two dozen mentally unstable females in a ranch-themed house with two undeniably hilarious brothers—the first episode alone involved Real and Chance making Chewbacca noises at one suspiciously tall woman, and wondering aloud whether another’s “orange suit” (artificial tan) was affecting her brain power—and prepare for a televised masterpiece.