Attackerman

Die, Die, Die My Darling, Don't Utter A Single Word

This blog must die for Attackerman to live. And as of this post, that's exactly what's happening. Starting Monday, this blog will be located -- finally -- at Attackerman.com.

No more obnoxiously stupid URL. No more amateurish publishing software. No more spam comments. No more URL hopping. 

It's taken the better part of a year, but with the help of two very talented friends, I've built a beautiful home for Attackerman -- one that I own, exclusively, for all time. I will not be moving this blog again, ever. The entire four-year archive of Attackerman will be hosted there, for the first time, all in one place. 

So I ask for your indulgence one last time, for one last URL jump and one last RSS change. I'm positive you're going to like Attackerman.com. See you Monday. I'm shutting the lights here.

 

Thanks, Rachel

Visit msnbc.com for breaking news, world news, and news about the economy

 

My Life In Pornography

Now that Playboy's check has cleared, been cashed, and financed my family's Thanksgiving trip to see my wife's mother in Michigan, I can probably say a few words about my first piece for Playboy. It seems not to be online yet, but if you happen to be interested in Miss December, flip to the very very back pages for something like 1700 words from me about how law enforcement is increasingly using spy drones. 

The reporting, writing and editing experience was outright pleasant. My Playboy editor, Josh, was super-interested in the piece, and hit an editorial sweet spot: straightforward with top-level guidance for what beats the piece needed to hit, and happy to hang back and let me do the rest. (I also want to thank him and Playboy for being flexible about accomodating my wedding and honeymoon.)

But OK: it's weird for me to be writing for Playboy. I am, ah, not a consumer of its product. Among the questions I didn't want to ask: who's buying Playboy in an era of ubiquitous free pornography? I imagine that in the Internet age, people really are buying Playboy for the articles. And there are some great pieces of writing in the December issue: I recommend the making-of-Scarface feature. (There's also an interview with Andrew Breitbart, which I haven't read but gain quite a great deal of satisfaction from.) Maybe the merchandising and value of the brand itself helps floats the magazine. I don't know, but certainly enjoyed the surreal experience. 

 

Kojo

WAMU's Kojo Nnamdi is my favorite radio host, so I'm beyond stoked to say I'll be on his show on Tuesday at 1 p.m. EST talking about drone strikes. Even better, I'll be on with New America's Brian Fishman, one of the few counterterrorism experts who really is a counterterrorism expert. 

Home News

Yes, I owe Ben Wittes a response to his exceptionally thoughtful replies to my Awlaki posts. But I was swamped today by some investigative reporting and a bit of kinda-spot news for Danger Room. For now, go read both of Ben's posts.

In the meantime, some home news. After a frustratingly long effort, I finally own Attackerman.com. That means in the very near future, this blog will migrate over there. And it won't just be this same thing in a new spot. I've been working for months with a first-rate design team to make the relaunched blog both beautiful and -- especially for a reader -- functional.

A founding assumption is that readers in 2011 and beyond who want incessant, short-take posting will want that via Twitter and Facebook, so we'll have full integration with my feeds; and readers who want more considered (but not buttoned-up) takes on national security will want that from Attackerman itself. And they'll want the blog to look good, from both the layout of the posts to the fonts to the colors to the placement of all the functionality. Finally, I'll have all my archives back -- from the long-lost ThinkProgress era in '08 through my time at FDL to today -- and there will be places for my WIRED and long-form work, too.

We're not ready to relaunch immediately. And I'll totally need your feedback when we do. But this long 2011 nightmare of an ugly blog with an ugly URL is almost over.

My Rules, Pt. 1

Writers caught using the following cloying cliches, in any and all permutations, will be publicly rebuked and awarded demerits: 

Letting the freak flag fly. The fuck, Dave Bry. Why do you want to take me out of your essay like that? You were almost writing about hip hop in a manner that didn't sound like a foreign exchange student reciting Shakespeare. And goddamn it, stay engaged enough to complete a thought.

I'm going to violate my own advice and end this post here because I hate the 'LTFFF' cliche that much.

 

Thanks, Dad

Got sentimental reading this from Ta-Nehisi: 

When you're black there's a certain alien-ness you accept. But when you are black in West Baltimore, and your parents are quasi-ex-hippies, the alien-ness is compounded by a factor of three. All your friends are hanging out, and your ass is stuck reading fucking Ishmael Reed. And you're, like, twelve. 

Not that his experience was my experience, of course, but my dad did give me that nearly disintegrated copy of Shrovetide In Old New Orleans. This being Father's Day, I lingered on Reed's name. Wrote a New York Press piece in 2005 for Harry Siegel that used Reed as a touchstone, and through him my father. Guy used to take me on long walks through Bay Ridge to teach me about Roman and medieval history, warned me (heedlessly) against throwing breaking pitches in little league, etc...

The Inevitable Collision of Anthony Weiner and Biggie Smalls

So over the weekend, Megan Carpentier reworked 50's "Magic Stick" -- not like that, creeper -- to be Anthony Weiner's ballad of virtual balling. As it happens, when she emailed me her track, I was cleaning the apartment while listening to "Dead Wrong" by B.I.G. on repeat. I took Megan's fine work as a challenge, so I switched to the instrumental , hit Reply and started typing.

As you'll see, it strays from the template at times, but in the spirit of authenticity, I shall correct no mistakes. 

The weak and the strong... who got it going on... you're dead wrong...

The weak and the strong... who got it going on... you're dead wrong...

Relax and take notes

While I tweet phot's of my exposed scrote

I wrote it'd make you choke, I wrote, I wrote...

Tony Ween for mayor, the text sayer, rant phantasia

Motherfucker, say a prayer:

"Baruch atah Adonai" --

LOL on your Facebook, make your girl sing my hook, uhhh

Sweet like licorice, five girls, five states it's all

unsolicited

But I don't want to Friend ya, I wanna Happy End ya,

on Fox News, or YouTube, to me it's all good 

Texting in my office, I show ya who the boss of intercourse is [sorry, Big]

it's foul -- show me your Dyker Heights style

I show you how I get down, from Ed to Countdown,

McLaughlin Group, we bone from now to Talk Soup

With me behind ya, you watching me on the Daily Show like it's a re-mind-er

DMs for days while I blaze and amaze, I used to think Twitter was a phase

But not not more [sic]

It's what's hanging from your jaw [FOUL!]

What I'm doing behind my office door, on my iPhone 4

I keep this chat going 'cause it's our IM

then she licked out my RIM 

I'M DEAD WRONG

Only posting because Weiner has decided he'd rather take 18 months off and then win the Apprentice or something.

Reality Is Waiting For A Bus

Quick survey: is there a punk or hardcore band that writes more about riding buses than Rancid? Stuck at a bus stop in yesterday's downpour, I tried to think of one and came up with the Subhumans track I'm using as the title for this post and the (superior) one I'm embedding here, with its unexpected freakout line, "Nobody says anything on buses/THAT'S WHY PEOPLE KILL THEMSELVES!!!!"

(Which was an early indication of how punk rock will lead you astray. Please: do not talk to anyone on a bus you do not know. Especially do not talk to me. It must be an emergency to violate this rule. I suppose asking for directions counts. But don't get into the habit of speaking to strangers because Dick Lucas convinced you that your fellow passengers are dangers to themselves absent your intervention.)

Who am I missing? Meanwhile, I'm in an airport, en route to Kentucky, where Rob Farley is going to introduce me to the pleasures of gambling on horseracing. Buses are no help here. Punk rock has not thought everything through.

Housekeeping

I've had some personal and family issues to attend to over the past few weeks, and that's led me to continue my nine-month trend of being a poor steward of Attackerman. Relative disinterest is overtaking me, leaving me to doubt that I have any value to add, or even why I'd believe I would in the first place. That's not a very healthy thing for someone in my line of work. But it feels good -- healthy, even -- to express it. Still, I want to turn this thing around, including with a migration away from Typepad (what a mistake it was in going for a blog-throwback feel); an incorporation of my FDL archives; and ultimately the establishment of Attackerman.com. If you're a designer, email me at spencerackerman-at-gmail and let's talk. Coming soon: a healthier balance of Danger Room and Attackerman work. You've heard it all before, so thanks, again, for bearing with.