1. I Found This Funny: My Favorite Pieces of Humor and Some That May Not Be Funny At All, edited by Judd Apatow.
Did you ever see The 40-Year Old Virgin? No? What about Funny People or I Love You, Man? Doesn't ring a bell? OK, what about Pineapple Express? That was pretty cool. James Franco was in it. Hmmm. Or Forgetting Sarah Marshall with that really tall dude? Or Year One with that simperingly cute dude? The same dude that was in Superbad? Or Get Him to the Greek with that unhealthy looking fat dude? All right. So you're not a movie-goer. Are you a fan of stand-up comedy? Richard Pryor, Lenny Bruce, Jerry Seinfeld, Bill Cosby, Sam Kinison, Robin Williams, Gallagher, Judy Tenuta? Did you ever wear an electric purple suit with a pink tie to a comedy club in Toronto in the 1980s? No? So you're not familiar with "riffing," or "punchlines," or "timing," or "going blue?" How about the comedy improvisation of Steve Carell? Nada? Well, then I guess this fuckin' book isn't for you then.

2. Philadelphia Noir, edited by Carlin Romano.
It's about time Philadelphia got its own nihilistic anthology of murder/crime-oriented short stories. Eagles fans need something to cheer them up.

3. Full Dark, No Stars, by Stephen King.
Goddamn. It must be effin' November because here comes Stephen King with another m-effin' Stephen King book! Cocaine and a near-fatal van crash have nothing on this dude! That's gotta be like, what—50 or 60 books by now? I think he's written at least 1,000 since I started writing this column last week. Just another novella collection, it seems. Ho hum. Just a few more longish stories to add to the 55,000,000 novella collections he's already published that will result in the production of 67,000,000,000 to 215,000,000,000,000 more films and the generation of $789,000,000,000,000,000 to $234,600,000,000,000,000,000 of additional revenue for his vast empire of publishers, editors, studios, agents, key grips, caterers, and Dunbar armed security guards who drive a mountain of money to his mansion in Bangor every morning. If you think about it, Stephen King is a lot like Scrooge McDuck, but instead of swimming in a pool of gold coins, he's swimming in a pool of gold coins and publishable copy. Except he's not an animated duck with bifocals from Scotland, but an actual guy with bifocals from New England.

4. Griftopia: Bubble Machines, Vampire Squids, and the Long Con That Is Breaking America, by Matt Taibbi.
There's been about 50,000,000 books about the financial crisis (some of them no doubt edited, authored, or co-authored by Stephen King), but this one's by a fella who works o'er there at that craaazy Rolling Stone magazine with Jann Wenner and all them craaazy ol' hippies, so it's probably way more interesting than a book about the financial crisis by some dude who works at The Economist or some other boring magazine that will never name Neil Young the 7th greatest guitarist of all time.

5. Unbearable Lightness: A Story of Loss and Gain, by Portia de Rossi.
Today, I'm going to go light on the jokes about eating disorders. Light. Get it? Is this thing on?

*

*In preparation for the forthcoming Academy Awards, Total Film posts the top twenty best and worst Oscar speeches over the years. Among the best? Matt Damon and Ben Affleck's surprise win for Best Original Screenplay, Holocaust survivor Gerda Weissmann Klein's win for Best Documentary Short Subject, and Kate Winslet's "daddy's girl" speech for Best Actress. The worst are made up of the more trite and overly dramatic speeches, including Marlon Brando's American Indian replacement, James Cameron's "I'm the king of the world" shout-out, and Halle Berry and Gwyneth Paltrow's weepy spiels.

*Charlie Sheen enters rehab for undisclosed "preventative measures" and announces he is officially taking a break from Two and a Half Men two months after he was accused of assaulting his wife. Whether he is in rehab for drugs, alcohol, domestic abuse, or letting his shitty CBS sitcom last seven seasons remains to be seen.

*Salman Rushdie announces plans to write a novel about his decade of hiding in England. Rushdie was forced into hiding after the Iranian government sent out an execution order for Muslims to kill the author of The Satanic Verses.

*Role reversal time! Former professional wrestler Ric Flair's wife is arrested for domestic violence against the multiple-WWE world heavyweight champion.

*The New York Post reports that Johnny Depp is set to appear on Sunday's episode of 48 Hours Mystery on CBS in support of the West Memphis Three. Depp, along with fellow celebrity supporters like Winona Ryder and Eddie Vedder, think that the three men accused of killing three 8-year-olds in 1994 were unfairly accused and convicted simply because they liked metal music and authors like Stephen King.

*Bristol Palin announces she is going to play herself on an upcoming episode of ABC Family's teen pregnancy drama The Secret Life of the American Teenager.

*Tonight in City Lights: Washington Ballet's The Great Gatsby at the Kennedy Center.

Photo by Mikio Ariga, via MySpace.

If Hirshhorn Museum Director Richard Koshalek gets his way—and it seems he will—then beginning in 2011 the National Mall will get a pretty striking makeover. Well, at least for two months a year.

News of the plan to install a giant bubble atop the Hirshhorn—the inflatable, removable, 145-foot structure would snake through the museum's central courtyard—broke this week, and you can catch up on all the nitty gritty over at Housing Complex. Here at Arts Desk, though, our questions are more aesthetic: Is the bubble a playful addition or a bulbous eyesore? Is it compelling art in and of itself, or a gaudy spectacle? We're not sure, so we asked our art critics. Read how they reacted to the design after the jump:

Critic Louis Jacobson digs the bubble and applauds the plan's political savvy:

Regardless of what you think of the artistic merits of the proposed, bulbous, temporary addition to the Hirshhorn Museum and Sculpture Garden—and my initial take is favorable, even if it looks a little like a napkin/napkin-ring combo—the proposal's greatest achievement may be its political savvy. Task No. 1: Avoid a prolonged battle with the National Capital Planning Commission and the U.S. Commission of Fine Arts by making the structure temporary, and thus not subject to the panels' review. (Remember the long slog over the mall's World War II memorial? Wouldn't want to repeat that.) Task No. 2: Be frugal. The reported budget is a modest $5 million, an advisable approach for these recessionary times. Task No. 3: Make it populist. Like Michael Graves' scaffolding for the Washington Monument's restoration in 1999 (sponsored by Target!), the Hirshhorn addition is casual-looking enough not to seem elitist. Politicians wouldn't want that. Interestingly, the architectural firm Diller Scofidio & Renfro, which designed the proposal, is based in New York and is best known for its work on such Big Apple landmarks as Lincoln Center, the High Line, and Governor's Island Park. But man, the firm seems to have figured out how to navigate official Washington better than most locals. They might just pull this one off.

Pace Blake Gopnik, critic Maura Judkis thinks the bubble is good news for the Hirshhorn's art:

The Washington Post's Blake Gopnik fears that the planned Hirshhorn balloon will distract people from the main attraction: the art housed within the building. I doubt that very much. If the space will be used for specific programming, like performances, lectures, and films, as planned, visitors independent to these events will be drawn to the balloon to experience and enjoy it—but then they'll go inside the museum to see the art, just as they always have. The balloon would be a far more welcoming space for events than the Hirshhorn's current lecture space, the small and musty basement-level Ring Auditorium—so why is the status quo preferable? If anything, the addition will bring more traffic from curious passers-by to a institution that, while one of the most-visited modern art museums in America, faces steep competition from the other attractions on the mall—a problem furthered by the building's off-putting (to some), hulking concrete structure. The levity is a lovely contrast. So, let's lighten up—the Hirshhorn is.

City Lights editor Mike Riggs is confused and fears for the safety of kittens:

I have looked and looked and looked at the strange picture of the bubble in the art museum. And, after much looking, have concluded that I simply do not understand art. The bubble looks pretty and weird—two integral characteristics of art—but I would rather attend a lecture at the high-traffic T-Mobile store in Columbia Heights than sit inside this thing, betting my sanity and my perfectly coiffed mane against the odds that some peckerhead with no appreciation for weird and pretty art might prick a hole in the bubble and suffocate us all. Also, I am slightly disappointed that it is not the same bubble on the cover of Stephen King's new book, which I haven't read, but which has a long list of characters in the beginning, just like the Bible. Will the Hirshhorn have a list of Bible characters? Probably not. Is this weird and pretty bubble better than all those million-dollar I.M. Pei panels at the National Gallery? Yes, until it collapses and kills a kitten.

Images courtesy of Diller Scofidio and Renfro.

1. Have a Little Faith: A True Story, by Mitch Albom.
I don't really read "Mitch Albom," and don't understand "his journey," or his "outlook," or what he's "about." I do know, however, that the employees of Second Story Books in Dupont Circle refuse to buy review copies of Mitch Albom books. Now, doesn't that kinda/sorta make you want to read them?

2. Under the Dome, by Stephen King. Since I have read every single Stephen King book, I can no longer pretend that I don't know this book exists and won't read it. It all started back in 1989 when my mother pointed to a shelf of classic Stephen King novels—It, The Stand, Salem's Lot, etc.—and warned me that I was not old enough to read them. But what was in these banned books? What mysterious and curiosities lurked therein? Just a lot of gore, and sex, and run-on sentences.

3. Say You're One of Them, by Uwem Akpam. Oprah's Book Club strikes again. Everybody pony up $15 to be part of the national conversation.

4. The Dollar Meltdown: Surviving the Impending Currency Crisis with Gold, Oil, and Other Unconventional Investments, by Charles Goyette.
I'm an economic contrarian. That is, I go against that crowd. That's a way to make a dollar, mister. When they're selling low, buy. When they're buying high, sell. But wait—if everyone reads this book and follows its advice, won't I have to be a counter-contrarian to be a contrarian? Goddammit. Come on—does anyone really understand economics? Let's go drive up to the Borgata poker room and get $300 in the pink-chip game.

5. unSweetined, by Jodie Sweetin.
An ironically-titled tell-all by a former Full House-cast member? Don't walk, run....no, don't run, fly...no, don't fly, beam...no, don't beam, transport...no, don't...well, just take a fucking submarine to the bookstore if you need to.

Skate rock (Think Sublime's genetic material crossed with that of Minor Threat) is a lot like milt. Some people get a mouthful of the creamy white stuff and think, "So this is fish sperm. Not bad!" Other people take a bite, move it around with their tongues, and then say to themselves, "Oh god, I just put fish balls in my mouth." They panic. They look for a trash can, a napkin, maybe some condiments to amend the taste. They crunch up crackers and squirt cocktail sauce directly into their gaping, fishy maws.  When that doesn't work, they spit what's left into their hands and shove it in their pockets.

Likewise, when it comes to seeing West coast skate music live, you either like getting involuntarily spanked by drunk white chicks with neck tattoos, pierced tongues, and exposed muffin tops, and jostled by aggressive white dudes with melanoma, trap muscles that touch their ears, and tattoos denoting their area codes/favorite Stephen King villains–both sets drugged and boozed to the hilt–or you don't. God help you if you ended up–perhaps by invite–at the 9:30 Club last night for the Jagermeister Tour without prior knowledge that you were entering White Trash Central.

My accomplice and I missed openers the Supervillains, who've come a long way since playing house parties in St. Cloud, Fla., and jettisoning their trombonist. Smally is still on sax and Dom is still on drums and vocals, though they brought in some guy named Skart who has dirty dreads and loves weed to sing about, well, his dreads and weed.  (Full disclaimer: I was five years behind the Supervillains at St. Cloud High School, and after catching them live my freshman year, joined the Shoehorns–a short-lived Christian ska band–on trumpet. The ska stuff wasn't for me–I just couldn't tongue my horn fast enough!–but I did have the privilege of dating the Shoehorns' bassist and a diehard Supervillains groupie for an entire month, at the end of which she asked me to choose between her and my penny loafers. I chose the shoes. She dumped my ass.)

Though we missed my hometown act, we made it just in time to catch Las Vegas rapper Big B perform "White Trash Life." When he asked the crowd, "Where my white trash hoes at?", nearly every guy in the club raised his hand in the air and then pointed down at the nearest female. I didn't hear the part about the hoes, so I just waved my hands for the hell of it, which earned me a wary stink-eye or two from a group of dudes in fitted black ball caps and Tapout muscle tees.

Next up was Authority Zero, a Latin- and ska-tinged punk band from Mesa, Arizona, that's been doing this whole music thing for, like, 15 years, with almost no one noticing (which explains why it's constantly losing members to the Air Force and other Fuck-It-Time-To-Grow-Up jobs). After running through a catalogue of maniacal punk numbers, the band played "One More Minute," the Sublime-ish alt-rock radio hit from 2002's A Passage in Time, but declined to launch into their anti-Iraq War cover of Wall of Voodoo's "Mexican Radio." The highlight of the set was Jason DeVore's rapid-fire vocals and stage monkery on nearly every song, which earned him mad props from Pennywise's Jim Lindberg, who is too old to jump around and likes to sing really, really slowly.

Which brings us to Pennywise, the wizened grandfathers wise godfathers of California skate punk. Aside from a guest appearance by Minor Threat bassist/guitarist Brian Baker and a ballsy rendition of "Bro Hymn" (Next to Queen's "We Will Rock You," it is THE rev-em-up sports song), I was more interested in Lindberg's between-song banter than guitarist Fletcher Dragge's oversized and overamped three-chord chest-breakers. Unlike DeVore, who's consistently espoused an anti-authoritarian political philosophy since 1994, Lindberg is all over the place. At the beginning of Pennywise's set, he said he approved of Obama "so far," and that he was definitely preferable to the "last eight years of bullshit." Later in the set, however, he gave a shout-out to the military's work in Iraq and Afghanistan, and encouraged the crowd to give a big hand to the men and women of the armed services who are "over there, kicking ass to keep us safe and free," despite the fact the Iraq War is the bulk of George W. Bush's political legacy, and  hands-down the stinkiest bullshit from the last eight years.

In between those pronouncements, Dragge and Lindberg riffed on white collar drones and "emo boys who wear their sisters' pants." Perhaps the sloppy mix of anarchism and hypermasculine nationalism is a West coast thing, but it just seemed so...not punk. A drone's a drone, whether it's sporting Brooks Brothers and a Blackberry or camouflage and an M-16. Then again, the no-neck crowd might have gone apeshit–and not in a good way–if Lindberg had openly criticized the military. The band's one attempt at inspiring political activism came when Dragge announced–not two songs before "Fuck Authority" from 2001's Land of the Free?–"This song is for one of you fuckers, hopefully you'll make it into the White House." Isn't saying "Fuck the government, unless we're the government," kind of like, I don't know, Ronald Reagan famously arguing "Government is not the solution to our problem, government is the problem"?

Hawaii dub-rockers Pepper went on last, wandering onto the stage covered in sweat and wearing nothing but board shorts, and did their best to disperse the angry white-dude vibes by shouting "Poonani," and "If you fight now, you can't fuck later," and flashing the triangle/vagina sign. The feel-good members of the crowd quickly caught on, bobbing their heads like a flock of pigeons and shouting "I love pussy!" while the dudes in Tapout shirts left for the curb outside to suck down some nicotine and compare choke holds. The set's only downfall was that it was loud enough to harsh my buzz.