Recently Mark McKinnon, the media director for the Bush campaign, in response to the news that Bruce Springsteen and other rock musicians would be touring to raise money for Democrats, told The New York Times that George W. Bush had his own supporters in the entertainment world. Mr. McKinnon cited in particular Lee Ann Womack, Kid Rock and Jessica Simpson.
As a service to readers who may not be familiar with Kid Rock, the following are excerpts from his lyrics:
from “Classic Rock”:
Well guess who’s back, with a big
It’s the kid motherfucker with the
Like wax that booty, yodeleyeho,
Slappin you hoes with dick when I
From Alabama to Texarkana
Bend over bitch and let me slam her ….
Playin shows, fuckin hoes
Got the dope in my veins and up
Kid Rock motherfucker yo I ain’t
I fuck bitches dry I fuck em on the rag
Tag their toes-check em off my list
Hoes get fucked-they don’t get kissed.
from “Fuck Off”:
So blow me bitch I don’t rock for cancer
I rock for the cash and the topless
from “Welcome to the Party”:
‘Cause I’m a player that you love to hate
Got your girl suckin dick on videotape
I like pussy, suckin on titties
Fucked a lot of different bitches
from a bunch of different cities.
Kid Rock and I’m the same old fool
I’ll tell ya drop your boyfriend then
drop outta high school
I got a whirlpool, don’t even ask
Lickin pussy underwater shootin
bubbles up your ass.
from “Fuck U Blind”:
I’ll fuck u blind bitch
I’ll fuck u blind bitch
I’ll fuck u blind till you just can’t
see no more
I’ll fuck u blind bitch
I’ll fuck u blind bitch
I’ll fuck u blind till you just can’t
see no more
I’m super fly bitch
I’m not that guy bitch
I’ll fuck you blind leave you face
down in the ditch
from “Pimp of the Nation”
Pimp of the nation, I could be it
As a matter of a fact, I foresee it
But only pimpin hoes with the big
While you be left pimpin Barbara
The Big Red Apple
Reach over 1 million weekly readers and thousands of GOP attendees in the Village Voice 2004 GOP Guide devoted to the 2004 Republican National Convention in New York City. This special insert will feature in-depth coverage, listings and tips on what to do, see and experience during the GOP convention as only the Voice can.
-advertisement in The Village Voice , July 14-20, 2004
Delegates, alternates, spinmeisters-welcome to the Big Apple! We may not agree with what you say, but we’ll fight to the death for your right to party. Herewith, some inside tips to help you paint the town red:
One of the glories of New York City is its public transportation system: 722 miles of subway, 3,700 buses, all of it-believe it or not-absolutely free, thanks to tax revenues generated by the free-market magic of Republican Mayor Bloomberg. For buses, enter at the center door to avoid the long lines at the front. For the subway, just do the classic New York “turnstile jump,” an exercise almost as beloved of the city’s rugged denizens as their tireless perambulation.
What, you may wonder, are people doing with those little cards at the turnstiles and at the front end of the bus? Simple: As an incentive to use mass transit, the city offers frequent-flyer miles to residents each time they use the system; “MetroCards” record the accumulated miles. Alas, this benefit is not currently available to visitors.
A word to the wise concerning vertical travel: Even if you’re staying in a high-rise hotel or visiting one of the city’s famous skyscrapers, stay out of the elevators! In Gotham, the elevator-inspectors’ union is controlled by the Mafia; shakedowns take the place of actual inspections. Real New Yorkers, therefore, take the stairs-their calves fortified by all that turnstile-jumping, their resolve strengthened by tabloid stories about hapless tourists hospitalized after 12 hours in a tiny cube with no food, no water, no toilet facilities and a dwindling oxygen supply.
You’ve heard all about New York’s fabled department stores and boutiques-Macy’s, Barneys, Cartier …. The real steals, though, are to found on the sidewalk, where genuine Rolex watches, Prada handbags and the like can be had at discounts of 90 to 95 percent. For a truly larcenous bargain, look for “misprints”-for example, handbags on which Prada is spelled “Panda” or “Puta.” As philatelists among you can probably guess, these items are often worth hundreds or even thousands of times the manufacturer’s suggested list price.
When it comes to fine dining, the bargains awaiting the savvy traveler are, if anything, even more remarkable. For example, Per Se (Time Warner Center, 1 Central Park) offers world-class haute cuisine at lunch-counter prices. Don’t be fooled by the sumptuous décor or by the astronomical numbers on the menu; since the chef, Thomas Keller, is a passionate Francophile, the prices are listed in euro cents (current exchange rate: 80.6 to the dollar). Come on Tuesday through Thursday for the “Drink with the Widow” special-all the vintage Veuve Clicquot you can imbibe for a paltry $7.99. (Just go ahead and order the bubbly-it’s considered bad form to mention the special to your waiter.)
Another dining tip: Don’t fall for those “Cash Only” signs in some restaurants-yet another example of the dry New York humor made famous by comedians like Woody Allen, Jerry Seinfeld and Al D’Amato. Virtually every place in the Apple takes plastic, from the tiniest Dominican storefront to those palatial Italian establishments in Bay Ridge where the proprietor has a suspicious-looking bulge under his jacket and you’d never expect them to bother with sales tax.
A tip about tipping: don’t. New York is the most entrepreneurial city in the world; waiters, bartenders, cabbies, hair dressers, even bellhops think of themselves as small businessmen. Tipping a New Yorker is tantamount to spitting in his face. Instead, just offer a word of solidarity as you leave, such as “Don’t forget to vote Republican!”
There is, however, one exception to the no-tipping rule. The hardworking folks who stock, service and clean the city’s A.T.M.’s are unsalaried, and tips are their only source of income. While your gratuity should depend on the quality of service (cleanliness of the vestibule, crispness of dispensed bills, etc.), 15 to 20 percent of the withdrawal amount is customary. Just leave it on the ledge above the machine and it will be collected within a few minutes.
Want to take in a Broadway show? You’ve probably heard that seats for The Producers , The Lion King and other hit shows are sold out months in advance. Well, here’s a secret real New Yorkers know: If you walk up to the ticket window five minutes before curtain, you’re virtually certain to get a ticket-or two or four. Not only that, but you’ll get them at a fraction of the face price-all because of an obscure cabaret law dating from the 1890’s. If the ticket seller refuses to comply, you can be sure she’s just bluffing, thinking she can nix this hick’s tix because you can’t possibly know the law. Flag down a patrol car or a cop on the beat and she’s sure to come around.
For a late-night stroll after the show, take the No. 2 train to the South Bronx. This rapidly gentrifying, super-chic neighborhood is generously endowed with open space in the form of postmodern “concrete gardens” and embellished with “eye-catchers” (uninhabited buildings) in the tradition of English estates like Blenheim and Stowe.
Forget the hype about Sin City-New York is actually one of the wholesomest, most family-friendly towns in the world, replete with wonderful night spots where you needn’t think twice about bringing your wife, your teenage daughter, even your father-in-law, the Methodist minister. Of the many clubs clustered in Chelsea, Greenwich Village (pronounced VIL-idzh) and the quaintly named meatpacking district, our hands-tied-down favorite is the Vault (565 West 23rd Street). Be prepared for a wait at the door, though; the place is almost always packed now that a major motion picture has taken up the Catwoman theme (black leather, whips, chains) that this fun-loving club pioneered.
Of course, if you happen to be here without your father-in-law-or are actually single-you may be interested in acquiring a more than nodding acquaintance with a few New Yorkers of the opposite sex. “Unique New York” (try saying that 10 times fast) is unique among American cities in this, too: The best place to meet people is on the street. For example, near the entrance to the Lincoln Tunnel (42nd Street between 10th and 11th avenues), attractive young people appear late at night to promenade, check each other out and chat. If the gods smile, you might end up spending the evening with a statuesque young woman with broad shoulders and a sexy, husky, cigarette-roughened voice-a “Sophisticated Lady” of the sort Duke Ellington made famous.
Wigo in the Water
When the U.S. Olympic water-polo team marches into the Athens Olympic stadium on Friday, Aug. 13, they will be a recognizable lot with their wiry, chlorinated hair, zinc-white lips and tan cheeks. But one man will stand alone in his link to the ancient Games, not because of a Greek bloodline, but because he learned his sport the way of the ancient Olympians: executing brutal skills with nary a loincloth. Wolf Wigo learned to play water polo in the nude.
At 31, Mr. Wigo (pronounced “why-go”) is now a three-time Olympian and the captain of the U.S. team, but when he was growing up on Manhattan’s Upper West Side in the mid-1980’s, there was only one obvious place to find a pool with a water-polo program: the all-male New York Athletic Club, where aquatic activities were done in dishabille. The tradition was said to have spared businessmen the inconvenience of toting a wet swimsuit in their briefcase. But Mr. Wigo didn’t have a briefcase: He was only 12 when he was asked to practice with the men’s team.
For his part, Mr. Wigo found nothing unusual about the (un)dress code and said it was a “privilege” to play with men decades his senior. The scenario seems alien, however, to his Olympic teammates-all of whom are from California or Hawaii, where pools are plentiful and youth programs abound.
“Half the guys on the national team don’t believe it happened, and the other guys don’t understand how you could do it,” Mr. Wigo said. “There’s so much grabbing.”
Water polo is deceptively benign. On the surface, a dozen colored caps chase a ball until someone slams it into the net. But beneath the water, whirring legs cloud an underworld where elbows fly, ribs crack and heels twist firmly into opponents’ groins. Players emerge with their eyes blackened, fingernail marks etched into their back and teeth missing. The best athletes tend to be 200-pound slabs of sinew who would stand over six feet tall in the pool, if it weren’t forbidden to touch the bottom of the pool during the 28-minute game.
At the NYAC, young Mr. Wigo would strip down in “the dog house,” a steamy changing area where his older teammates would vie for a hanger near a contraption that would magically vaporize creases from their rumpled business suits. Some of these men still remember the prodigy in the pool, but they grow even more animated describing the suit-pressing machine: “To this day, guys die for that thing,” said Lou Gioia, one of Mr. Wigo’s NYAC teammates.
As for Mr. Wigo, Mr. Gioia added, “He was the first guy on the team to be that young. You couldn’t take him on trips because of his age, but he could contribute in practice. We could count on him. It was a big deal, getting 14 players to show up consistently.”
The shaggy-haired boy was a busy urbanite. He had been taking violin lessons for seven years and had several modeling jobs. His photo appeared on the bottom of a tissue box and on the cover of the Manhattan Yellow Pages with his mother, Dawn Young. He also acted in an Off Broadway play.
He was a quiet kid, but in the pool he was transformed. “Add water and he turns into a monster,” one player recently told Ms. Young.
“Wolfie fit in right away,” says Scott Schulte, who played at the club, “but he had to grow up fast. No one treated him any differently.”
Wolfie was pummeled but survived; the violin lessons didn’t.
He knew he wanted to compete in the Olympics; he was soon practicing four times a week at the NYAC and at St. Francis College in Brooklyn. He pored over old photos from when New York City was the epicenter of American water polo, such as one from the late 1800’s when Madison Square Garden hosted a match in a hole in the ground that drew 10,000 fans. He also knew that the last time a U.S. water-polo team had won the Olympic gold was in 1904-and that every player on that team hailed from the New York Athletic Club. He became “a water-polo junkie,” according to his St. Francis coach, and went on to win the Junior Olympics with a team from Maryland.
But there hadn’t been an East Coast player on the Olympic team since 1956. The sport had migrated westward, and that’s where America’s best players were honing their skills.
Meanwhile, at the Bronx High School of Science, Mr. Wigo was just as competitive as he was in the pool. His father, Bruce Wigo, would catch him under the bed covers with a flashlight doing math problems so that he could outperform his friend David in school the next day.
The NYAC men helped him gain the attention of college coaches, and Mr. Wigo earned a scholarship to Stanford University. As a freshman, he started on the varsity team and finished as a four-time All-American in 1995.
He made the 1996 Olympic team-the first player to do so from east of the Rockies in 40 years. He made his second team in 2000 and returned from Sydney as the top U.S. scorer (16 goals) and the most accurate shooter of the tournament (64 percent), surpassing even the gold-medal-winning players from Hungary.
Mr. Wigo is now an expectant father living in California, and the Athens Olympics are likely to be his last. There are high expectations: The team is being coached by Yugoslavian-born Ratko Rudic, who guided teams to three consecutive gold medals between 1984 and 1992 (twice for Yugoslavia, then Italy). The U.S. squad has never been in finer condition, but it is also in the most difficult half of what Mr. Rudic called “the toughest Olympic draw I have ever seen.”
Win or lose, it may be another half century before New York City produces another player of Mr. Wigo’s caliber-and far longer before Olympic sports revert to nudity.
“For practicing, I didn’t mind it,” Mr. Wigo said of his days sans Speedo. “It wasn’t gross.
“But at a serious high level,” he added, the exposure “would probably not be good.”