My heart is pounding. The elevator seems exempt from the consequences of time. The doors slide open. The waiting room is filled with the presence of seven other women and an almost unbearable tranquility. I take a seat. “Breathe, just breathe,” I repeat to evoke solace hidden by the pulsing of my chest. I am all but exasperated at the thought of seeing him. Him. Minutes pass before I’m asked back into a room. Palms wet and my body shaking, I take off my shoes, socks, pants. The cold chair meets my naked thighs. Legs pulled unceremoniously apart. A woman smiles and says something I do not understand. The chattering of their voices competes with the thoughts in my own head. Then it happens. Without warning. Without ceremony. Without my consent. The most degrading, isolating, and sterile experience of my life unfolds and assaults my intimate space.
Hot damn, but we’re gettin’ fat.
Shuttling amongst planes and meetings with his publisher, its 10:45 in the morning on a Thursday in what is slowly becoming a normal existence for author and journalist Jeff Sharlet. The unassuming yet highly provocative writer, who in recent weeks has run alongside the media’s upper crust elite, sounds poised and content in light of the praise that his political expose-extraordinaire, “The Family: The Secret Fundamentalism at the Heart of American Power,” is receiving from both the conservative and more liberal wings of organized Christian hierarchy. Making the welcome, albeit, shocking reception of the book all the more relevant are the recent philandering ways of Nevada Senator John Ensign and South Carolina Governor Mark Sanford, who had both received “spiritual counseling” in the aftermath of their affairs from the evangelical leaders at C-Street, the startling subject at the heart of Mr. Sharlet’s newest work.
J.P. Plunier’s career and subtle nuance for his craft have much akin to that of a master watchmaker. An artisan rarely seen but always respected by the discerning individual for the complexities contained within the timepiece itself, Plunier finds much in common as he is perhaps one of the most aesthetically-sound yet least visible entities in the vast expanse of the music industry today.
Comprised of a veritable plethora of punk rock heavyweights, Black President’s everyman, fuck-all style is a testament to their refusal to fall in line with the politically correct or casually ambivalent. The four-piece supergroup, comprised of Christian Martucci of The Strychnine Babies, Charlie Paulson of Goldfinger, Jason Christopher of New Dead Radio and Dave Raun of Lagwagon, was founded on their self-described belief that the human race is “angry, greedy, simple & ugly.” With a mantra that stresses education of self and “respect amongst those that are willing to mutually share it,” Black President’s music is rekindling what was once possible in the iconic hails of classic punk rock.
Something about the Pacific Northwest has always been conducive to the establishment of independent artistic trend. Perhaps rooted in the excess of sea-level oxygen or the patroning communities that surround the artists, Seattle has always been at the forefront of producing expressionists that are both credible and ultimately, commercially viable, when the rest of the nation begins to slowly catch on.
