Spencer,

Ironically, I really never paid much attention to Wonkette until I left the Washington area and moved to New York. I guess it was growing up in the D.C. private school system, surrounded by the children of ambitious senators and disgraced bureaucrats that led to my deliberate incognizance when it comes to politics, sort of like all those Spence and Dalton kids who sit at Pastis talking about how they’re “so over” money. D.C., like Brooklyn to some upwardly-mobile financiers and  campy filmmakers, was a place you got away from so you could discover where all the interesting people were hiding.

Then the Washingtonienne posts began, and I started reading. Not for the scandal details – blah blah, crusty old men on the Hill like willing young women. I’d heard worse from friends who worked as pages in high school (as  subsequent scandals have since proven). No, the fascinating part was the relationship developing between the two women, one a talented and ambitious writer who realized that anal sex jokes were, for better or worse, a surefire way to hook male readers in a traditionally stale and priggish demographic, the other a street-smart intern who understood the fundamental rules of being a cute girl in a city full of repressed, ego-driven men. What started as an “outing” and its subsequent traffic explosion evolved into a sort of oviparous symbiosis, with Cox’s constant posts about Cutler’s unrepentant behavior reflecting a disdainful envy. Then both women took their newfound celebrity, cashed in their chips and moved on to bigger and better things. It was almost beautiful, in a twisted, cockeyed way.

While I haven’t met Pareene, I paid close attention when he and David Lat  took over (Disclosure: I know and respect Lat and have agreed to write for his current project). This new tag team – the witty lawyer with the 24-carat resume and the precocious 21-year-old college dropout – made for an excellent read, and I’ll admit I wondered whether the kid could keep it together as a solo artist. But if this election was any sort of performance barometer, I’d say he kept the pressure high with a sharp knowledge of the city’s dynamic (not quite an oxymoron, I’ll finally admit) plus an ability to churn out droll ledes and funny comments under the notorious Denton deadline (twenty-four posts in ten hours – I’d be injecting meth into my tongue after two days of that). And Spencer, just in case you missed this one, Happy Black Friday. Now get thee to the mall!

Spencer,

It’s Thanksgiving, we all need to start basting our 12-pound organically-grown oven stuffer turkeys, so I’ll keep it brief (though the internet rests for no oven timer, particularly when celebrity gossip blogs are on the table). Ah Perez Hilton (aka Mario Lavandeira ). The site (and its title, for that matter) is so easy to loathe, with its bubble gum background, vapid content and nasty (but not necessarily clever – the first is usually forgiven in the presence of the second) content. Websites like Gawker perfected and mass-produced celebrity snark, offering google-cached photos and ginsu-edged editorial commentary, and the format’s success spawned countless (and often, reader-less) this-minute spinoffs. Meanwhile, Perez kept the formula painfully simple: Poach photos from celebrity photography services, post them with crude handmade alterations, and add a nasty zinger or two in the heading.

Simple, churlish and smutty, perhaps; but damn did it work. Rising above the torrent of celebrity-mocking blogs crowding the blogosphere, Perez is a daily read for millions of the gossip-starved web junkies that make up our soulless culture. His information may be completely incorrect (he even states it in a disclaimer on his front page) and his commentary runs from merely shallow to devoid of all possible meaning. But still the readers come in droves, drawn by the catchy, derivative title (his site was called pagesixsixsix.com until the namesake threatened to sue) and campy, outrageous tone. His popularity led to eventual media attention and high earnings (pretty unthinkable for a personal blog with such low overhead costs) and at last the self-proclaimed “fat, gay kid in Thespian Society” finally achieved what he’d so obviously wanted: a place among the celebrities he pretends to loathe but desperately needs to be a part of.

Granted, it’s easy to dismiss Lavandeira and his ilk as tepid, brain-shriveling crap. But let’s be frank; the guy gets more hits a day than Andrew Sullivan. Diatribes about how Lavandeira’s success represents gaping fissures in the collective soul of modern humanity aside, he gives people what they want, and they come to him in droves. But the appeal rests only in the writer’s outsider status. While he dishes out daily scorn and contempt, he secretly believes the beautiful haut monde he writes about are his superiors, and hates them for it. But as he becomes more and more a part of the Lohan-filled scene, posing for pictures with Aguileras and Richies (and actual Hiltons), the blog loses its only real edge, replaced by a sickening obsequiousness over his newfound celebrity “friends” that could induce even the strongest gag reflex. Funny how you’re less likely to post pictures of Lindsay with coke lines drawn under her nose when you’re worried about getting invited to her next Malibu birthday bash.

Now, as paparazzi services are suing Perez over his shameless photo poaching, the claws come out and the site may eventually fade into Google-cached oblivion (Quel tragedie!). But until then, well, nothing really. I sure as hell never read it before the whole crush of publicity. Why start now.

[Movable Snipe is a Daily Shvitz feature wherein two writers spend a reading a handful of blogs and offering constructive (or savage) criticism in epistolary form. This week's Snipers: Spencer Ackerman and Melissa Lafsky.]

Spencer,

In response to your question of whether I think some of Feministing’s images and links should receive further discussion, I’d say my answer can be summed up in one of the superfluous Latin phrases I picked up back in law school (See dad? All those tuition dollars weren’t for nothing!). The phrase is “Res ipsa loquitur,” and it means, essentially, “The thing speaks for itself.” Do we really need to deconstruct the sociopolitical implications of a giant vagina urinal? Is it somehow remiss not to accompany a picture of a doggy style coffee table with several paragraphs of detailed analysis? Somehow, I think it’s safe to say we all just get it.

As for the question of feminism’s “humorless” baggage, whether or not it’s accurate to say that the traditional movement suffers from a severe humor shortage, it’s certainly portrayed that way (and doesn’t do much to help itself, as evidenced recently by the scene in hopelessly-hyped “Borat: Cultural Learnings of America for Make Benefit Glorious Nation of Kazakhstan,” in which the faux-hero meets with a group of dour, priggish feminists who stomp from the room once he begins dropping his outrageously sexist and heavily-accented comments. The women later talked of suing). And let’s be honest, a dose of laughter might not be such a terrible thing, as I think the writers at Feministing have realized. Humor can be an excellent source of social deconstruction, as we identify entrenched gender roles and stereotypes by exaggerating them to extremes and then having a good laugh over the results. Of course the legacy of fighting for equality in a patriarchal society isn’t inherently funny, but the ability to step back and recognize that no single viewpoint represents universal truth, and the whole “battle of the sexes” really isn’t a concept with a conceivable winner, can be invaluable.

[Movable Snipe is a Daily Shvitz feature wherein two writers spend a reading a handful of blogs and offering constructive (or savage) criticism in epistolary form. This week's Snipers: Spencer Ackerman and Melissa Lafsky.]

Spencer,

I’ve always respected Feministing. As I’ve said before, times are rough for anything calling itself “feminist” these days. From images of the "[un]shaved girl burning her bra, standing on campus screaming at everybody" to invocations of the women’s movement as “bras, aprons and constitutional amendments,” we’ve got an image problem on our hands that’s manifesting in all sorts of backlash-heavy ways. Pop culture reflects a longing for the “manliness” that we modern, career-obsessed, testosterone-leeching succubi have robbed from our male counterparts. Ad campaigns shell everything from beer to deodorant by appealing to that blissful (and virtually nonexistent) era when men could be men without feminine interference. Meanwhile, getting naked in front of cameras has become a co-ed right of passage, breast enhancement surgeries have multiplied to the point of raising the average bra size, and adolescent girls are still absorbing the message that being pretty is just as, if not more, important than being smart. And to top it off, breast feeding is now repulsive enough to get you kicked off a plane.

So when a twenty-something self-labeled feminist like Jessica Valenti starts a blog dedicated to picking up the PR-scarred pieces of the old school women’s rights movement, she earns my instant respect. For starters, she’s automatically signing up for a pummeling from all the tired, humorless antagonists, male and female alike, who see the word “feminist” and start twitching in their eagerness to tear down the source. Let’s see, how can we trivialize and smother this site. A ha! They have pictures of trucker girls in their heading. Degradation! Hypocrisy! And wait, hold on, the founding editor is… hot! Plus she has BOOBS! Photographed in the same room with Clinton, no less. Clearly the whole operation’s a fraud. Light the torches! To the stake!

As for the site’s content, they follow the primary rule of successful blogs (post as often as humanly possible) and show a unique ability to sniff out those invidious little hypocrisies in the mainstream media, all while sparing us the righteous sermonizing that helped land feminism its current bad rep. It’s not the first place I go for in-depth analysis or discussion, but no other women’s sight beats their range of material, covering everything from boob wine racks to interviews with Former U.S. Congresswoman and member of the Nixon Impeachment Panel Elizabeth Holtzman. Plus they’re not afraid to drop the armor, take a deep breath and have some fun with it. Because honestly, where is it written that being a die-hard feminist means you can’t also love Buffy.

[Movable Snipe is a Daily Shvitz feature wherein two writers spend a reading a handful of blogs and offering constructive (or savage) criticism in epistolary form. This week's Snipers: Spencer Ackerman and Melissa Lafsky.]

Never Melissa's boss: Marty Peretz[Movable Snipe is a Daily Shvitz feature wherein two writers spend a reading a handful of blogs and offering constructive (or savage) criticism in epistolary form. This week's Snipers: Spencer Ackerman and Melissa Lafsky.]

Spencer,

Well, as they say, if you’re gonna go down, may as well do it in flames. The blogosphere is nothing if not a unique source for cathartic self-expression, connection with one’s fellow human beings, and limitless platforms for nonstop bitching about your place of employment (though it’s better if you’ve already left the job – trust me on this one). You’re certainly in good company –Charles Lane, Michael Kelly, and of course Andrew Sullivan have all been reportedly masticated and expectorated by the TNR machine.

While I’m usually impressed with TNR’s quality of journalism, I’ll confess to being a newcomer to The Spine. So many eds-in-chief now have cyber-soapboxes under their publication’s web masthead, there’s simply no time to read them all and still reserve the necessary five hours for consuming apocryphal tales of earth’s imminent destruction, masterfully-spun punditry and brain cell-demolishing celebrity gossip. But The Spine proved to be a time-saver, in that the author’s ornery malignance shines through in one quick scan. After wading through the gooey grandiloquence of Peretz’s fustian pedantry (though granted, I’m a card-carrying member of the unwashed masses whose Harvard rejection letter arrived less than eight days after mailing in the application, so maybe his perspicacity was simply lost on me), I discovered that his gift lies in his ability to offend virtually everyone on the planet. Equal opportunity loathing for every class, race, creed, group, viewpoint, analysis and education level but your own – I suppose it’s a form of egalitarianism, albeit in a twisted way. Affirmative action, a doctrine that apparently promotes and is rooted in anti-semitism, is "regretfully” resurfacing as a “trap for Democrats.” Palestinians are “lemmings” whose cause is “without ethical meaning.” Andy Warhol’s iconic Mao portraits are nothing but “extensions of China's mass production of the chairman's image.” And everyone with an IQ lower than 115 should be rounded up, stashed in a deserted Nebraska slaughterhouse and forced to donate their eyeballs and livers to their intellectual superiors.

As for Peretz himself, well, perhaps he programs his Google alerts to omit descriptions containing words such as “one of the magazine industry's cruelest autocrats” or “self-promoter, braggart, Arab-hater, name-dropper, and bad writer,” or even “grand, cape-swirling, mustache-twirling crank who periodically emerges from a volcanic fissure in the ground in order to curse the light of the sun, blaspheme the name of God, and drink the blood of particularly slow and vulnerable golden retrievers.” Then again, maybe he’s just taking a lesson from the stone tablets of megalomaniacal PR: No press is bad press, as long as – well, I’m sure we all know the rest.