Cookie Dough Thoughts and Unsubstantiated Flotsam

mid-term crazy

2010-10-31T14:52:00.001-04:00

Well, it's the weekend before the mid-terms and the TV ad vitriol has reached its zenith.

To listen to these cretins, you'd think we were stuck with a choice of either Stalinist breadline growing communists or gun-crazy idiot fundamentalist christian Nazis. Who knows? Maybe TV is right. After all, TV wouldn't lie now, would it? Christ, I mean Obama's about as middle of the road as you can get in my book and the right wing rabblerousers already have him pegged as a Muslim Communist Nazi rolled into one, a stark raving bundle of extremism contradictions "comrade"ing and goosestepping all over their version of the constitution, one that doesn't exist outside the confines of their revisionist imagination (of the anti John Lennon variety).

The left are far more incompetent in their ability to illustrate a vision of the right's love-Jesus-or-die fundamentalist tendencies (generally, those sort of politicos are more effective in demonstrating their own scary brand of wackiness than the left ever could be). Of course, the left couldn't sell ice in hell. They're the Willy Loman of the political world and would never win the Cadillac or even the steak knives in Baldwin's Glen Garry sales contest.

I get the feeling that most of the country could probably be classified somewhere in the socially liberal/fiscally conservative bucket, but you rarely hear that voice expressed in the media. It's just not that entertaining, I guess. I myself am glued to the left side of this bucket, though my fiscal conservatism is generally aimed at the DoD pig trough, where billions - trillions - get wasted on fat cat contractors while we have soldiers applying for food stamps. I'd transfer some of that to social programs where we spend relatively little (though you certainly wouldn't think so given the TV ads).

Ahh, yes - the mid-terms. Rarely a good time for those in power (especially when things aren't good). It's almost always a purging and given the economic climate, this will be no different. I suppose that's what keeps us in balance. But why does it seem like the yahoos we elect are more yahooey every year? I guess it just seems that way. But just the fact that super yahoos like Christine O'Donnell end up on a ballot anywhere sends a chill up my spine.

Cinderella sweeping up on Desolation Row

2010-08-14T21:33:00.000-04:00

I've certainly neglected this blog of late - it's been nearly two months since I last posted. Mostly it's because I've been focusing on other things but more than a little is due to it becoming almost an "obligation." And I don't have a whole lot to say that I can't express through other channels (including a number of other blogs I maintain). This was my 'rant' outlet and though I've got plenty of things still to rant about, none of them seem all that funny. So I think I'm going to officially put this guy in mothballs and continue to focus my energies elsewhere.

Of Dolphins and Douches

2010-06-23T10:04:00.001-04:00

In a gracious show of sensitivity over the ongoing Oil "spill" his company caused, BP CEO Tony Hayward went yachting this past weekend in "his smaller boat" (leaving his usual schooner, seen at left, back at dock). Hayward made additional sacrifices as well, postponing his 6th annual Dolphin Hunt (that's last year's hunt kicking off on the right) and the traditional Manatee round-up. Classic Daily Show bit. The photo of the "Dolphin Hunt" cracked me up like nothing in awhile.

I don't care if it rains or freezes ...

2010-06-19T21:13:00.000-04:00

It's been an apocalyptic June thus far, what with lightning striking down a six story Jesus in Ohio, a state well known as the nexus of the pending battle against good or evil; in fact, I think the book of revelations says as much in the chapter covering the rock and roll hall of fame. That old song might go, "I don't care if it rains or freezes, 'long as I got my plastic Jesus" but it doesn't mention lightning. So bad juju in Oh-hi-oh. And then Thursday some ruffians up and kidnap Jeremy London, forcing him to smoke crack and buy them alchohol. It seems kind of odd that they didn't ask for a ransom. Jeremy has been known in the past to partake in the magic rock, but I'm sure this isn't his way of getting in front of bad publicity surrounding a slip off the slope of his sobriety. I hope these same hooligans don't make their way to Hollywood and mug Lindsay, stealing her SCRAM bracelet and forcing her to ingest copious quantities of booze and coke. But I wouldn't be surprised.

Of Weeds, Madness, Sheep, Shoes, and other Bullshit

2010-06-11T19:28:00.000-04:00

Ahh, the time has come for another season of Penn and Teller's Bullshit! on Showtime. Brilliant show. With Weeds and Mad Men just a few weeks away, things are starting to gear up for the TV favorites of yours truly. I pretty much missed most of the network season recently put into mothballs for that anachronism of yore known as "summer hiatus." None of that means much in our world of 1000 channels of tube action and virtually infinite choices online but the networks like to pretend the past 15 years never happened, I guess.

In other news, apparently there's a Joan Rivers documentary (you know her: that brilliant director of 1978's Rabbit Test). Meanwhile, sadly buried in this week's news, the world's oldest pair of shoes was discovered in a layer of Sheep's dung: 5500 years and just like new, thanks to the natural preservatives found in Ba Ba's Poo Poo. And just where Joan Rivers left them as a child. Ba-dum.

A well-oiled machine

2010-06-06T17:47:00.000-04:00

The Long John Silver's fast food franchise must be thrilled about the Gulf Oil spill as it should save them millions on the very substance they drench all their seafood products in. Import fish from down Louisiana way and it comes pre-oiled at no cost. Long John Silverfish isn't the only beneficiary of what on the surface might not seem to have any positives: Mickey D's, Burger King, and the rest all have deep fried seameat on the menu. Now, with the winning combination of oil, salt and fish all mixed in together, it's time for BP to take a cut of this on-the-go snack food windfall. Cajun "blackened" fish takes on a whole new meaning now.

Meanwhile, there are more important fish to fry - sorry, poor choice of words; let's just say, "things to worry about" - what with the Hells Angels' takeover of Scandinavia. I never would have considered this to be possible but the National Geographic channel is telling me it's true. Probably taking advantage of the burgeoning Lutefisk-based methamphetamine market in those parts.

Death doesn't take a Holiday

2010-05-29T17:39:00.001-04:00

Gary Coleman is dead. Which makes the prospect of a Different Strokes movie all the more unlikely. Okay, I know there was already a Different Strokes flick starring Dana Plato; however, I meant a non-porno whose storyline is at least vaguely related to the show. Sure, remake movies rarely include original cast members, except for cameo appearances, but actors are notoriously superstitious beasts and there aren't many that would want to tempt fate by associating themselves with this cursed franchise. Well, Todd Bridges is still hanging on. He's not even behind bars anymore. And he, after all, is the only one who can finally answer the question, "What'choo talkin' 'bout, Willis?" Perhaps Todd, Conrad Bain and Charlotte Rae could get together for a reunion show anyway. Play it real. Kimberly has killed herself and Arnold has died of stupidity. Bains and Rae are as old as dirt, so you'd better hurry. Of course, they'll both probably outlive Bridges in the end. He's due to go off the deep end soon.

As I write this, I hear of another passing on a whole different scale: Dennis Hopper, one of my favorites ever to grace the silver screen. To paraphrase his Apocalypse Now photojournalist: "I'm a small man, a small man; he's a great man ... his mind is clear but his soul is mad." I couldn't put it better.

So as Gary and Dennis stand waiting at the pearly gates (or perhaps a somewhat warmer variant), they must be having an interesting conversation. Perhaps Art Linkletter has joined them.

Now, on a completely unrelated topic, I'll close with the parting words from more than one of the A-Team episodes I caught on the Centric Network's marathon today. "Why do they do it?" "For the Jazz, man. For the Jazz." Indeed. Pure poetry.

Life during Wartime

2010-05-28T16:43:00.001-04:00

It's hard to laugh at a world spinning out of control but if you don't, you're in for one helluva serious life. Wired on too many Cherry Coke Zeros and Weight Watcher Giant Latte Ice Cream bars, I sit and contemplate the news of the day. And chuckle. Gary Coleman is dying, Art Linkletter is dead, Lindsay Lohan can't drink, and there is still no film adaptation of Barney Miller in the works. Oh, and some oil is leaking somewhere (presumably, Bruce Willis, Ben Affleck and Co. will be heading in to save the day after Waterworldly Kevin Costner was shot down in his efforts at being superhero).

Meanwhile, a new romantic comedy is being inspired by miss Half Baked Alaska and new next door neighbor Joe McGinniss (Tina Fey and Jonah Hill?). He's renting the house across the way in Wasilla in order to get material for a new tell-all book on the noted bookworm and tea bagger. In response, she just erected a 14 foot tall fence on the property line separating their two abodes. Love is soon to follow, I'm sure.

But despite this turmoil, all is right with the world. I know this because there are re-runs of Miami Vice and Soul Train on the tube (thanks BET and MTV, for the newly re-branded Centric Network). Miami Vice ... mmmh ... ya know, perhaps it's a good thing that there is no Barney Miller movie.

Samberg rules

2010-05-16T13:46:00.001-04:00

Andy Samberg's digital short Great Day was, I thought, the one and only highlight of the latest episode of SNL.

While looking up Great Day on You Tube, I came across another great Samberg short ...

Pink Panther of the Apocalypse

2010-05-08T15:21:00.002-04:00

Lord Jesus Christ was hit by a car this week. Makes me want to pack it up and stay inside.

Between the taser-tottin' sport-cops gettin' all trigger-happy on the baseball diamonds of America, and the Inspector Clouseau wing of Al Qaeda on the prowl, rigging SUVs with M-80s and fertilizer like a poor man's Tim McVeigh, it feels as though the good guys and bad guys alike might zap me through their exuberant conformance to the rules on one hand or some nefarious incompetence stumbling over accidental "success" on the other.

Now before anyone gets their panties in a bunch, I'm in no way equating the police with terrorists. In fact, I'm all for tasing drunken or just-plain-goofy morons and the fruitcakes who break the rules should be sentenced to spend the rest of the season in the ballpark parking lot in a taser-based "dunk" tank so that tailgating fans can take turns shocking the shithead until he drops into the water (and then it's back onto the blank for you so another lucky fan can have a go). Nor I'm comparing those who would kill and maim innocents to Peter Sellers' lovably bumbling French detective, except to note that Clouseau and the would-be Times Square car-bomber seem to share a flair for the idiotic.

Even dumb shits get lucky every once in a while, though, so it's probably best to stay put under the bed and wait it out, listening for the galloping hoof beats of the impending Apocalypse, hoping to make the guest list. Assuming the end-of-days aren't canceled because some wing nut mowed down the son of god in their Canyonero. Wouldn't be the same sort of party without Him. Sort of like starting a Soc/Greaser rumble without Dallas Winston. Meanwhile, I'll try my best to stay gold ...

"Oh, but I was so much older then, I'm younger than that now."

2010-04-26T20:45:00.004-04:00

Raquel Welch turns 70 this year. Damn I feel old. She turned 22 the day after I was born. I looked it up after seeing her in a Foster Grant ad campaign on TV and not believing my eyes (yes, that's the 69 year old to the left in the aforementioned commercial). She looks pretty darn good for 70 (actually, looks pretty good for 40). I imagine that she deserves a lot of credit; however, the lion's share is probably owed to Hollywood's best FX magicians (medically licensed and otherwise).

I'll say this: she looks younger and healthier than 23 year old Lindsay Lohan. And that can't be attributed to make up or plastic surgery. But in both cases, chemistry is definitely involved ...

The magnetic attraction of dicks and bellingham

2010-04-22T22:08:00.002-04:00

Ahh, Bellingham, Washington. My dad was born and spent his early years there before his family moved down south to Seattle. His stepfather was but one of a plethora of Buzzards concentrated in the vicinity, many associated with the venerable Buzzard Iron Works, an icon of sorts for a time there. The aforementioned Robert Buzzard, Jr. was a miserable SOB by all accounts, someone who cursed us with the vulture moniker by adopting my dad after marrying his widowed mother. I have no Buzzard blood and would otherwise have been Steve Finnegan. Fuck wad. (Grammar question: is fuck wad one word or two?)

Ironically, ol' man Bob apparently acted like he resented having adopted my dad (or perhaps he was just disappointed in the mess Chuck later made of his life). I wish he'd have gone with his instincts. I personally remember little to nothing about the guy (we didn't visit all that often and when we did, I don't recall him there). There's a little burb at the end of this obit page that lists several notable dead Buzzards from Bellingham, including my step-gramps (and his father).

Anyway, there was a story online today that got me thinking of Bellingham. Some guy in a store reeked of a foul odor and when a worker there tried to tell him so in as tactful a manner as one could muster under the circumstances, the guy threw batteries at him and punched him in the face. Somehow the story had, for me, Bellingham written all over it.

Speaking of dicks, it's simply amazing the percentage of ads (and spam) across all spectrum of media related to the core issue of erectile dysfunction (now universally known as ED; I think even young kids are taught this in school). I feel sorry for those afflicted who also "take nitrates for chest pain," since they apparently can't avail themselves of Viagra, Cialis, et. al. Presumably if they take nitrates for other reasons, they're golden.

Alice in Wonderland

2010-04-17T14:26:00.000-04:00

The Tea Party movement really has me baffled. Especially when taxes have gone down for the vast majority of those who identify with the cause. It's just one perspective but I'm of a mind that there's more going on here than simple righteous indignation over Wall Street excesses and horror over the health care legislation.

It's funny that the same folks bemoaning government involvement in health care are also up in arms over the decision to have less government involvement in space exploration. It's like a bunch of 7 year old boys who can't get enough of bombs and astronauts but have no use for playing nurse (that's for "girl" countries). Christ. No wonder we've had so many presidents who either resembled, played or actually were soldiers and cowboys. We haven't elected an astronaut president yet (but we have put a few into congress). Something so basic and necessary as health care already has government involvement that we pay too much for in taxes, footing the tab for what becomes of that portion of our society that didn't and don't have health and have become a chronic long term drain on the system. Or for the people who use the emergency room as their primary care facility. We end up having to subsidize all this indirectly but no less costly. It's cheaper by far in the long run to ensure folks have preventative care in the first place. Health care is even more essential than education, to my mind (it's tough to educate someone who's sick and even tougher when they're dead). Space exploration is important, sure (and I'm as big a space nut as anyone). But in comparison our more basic needs, there's no contest. Just one bum's opinion.

"We want our country back" seems to be the battle cry. Where did it go? There isn't any more government involvement or control now than there had been over the previous eight years of the Bush administration. In fact, it can be argued that there is less involvement (at least of the more insidious variety). I always had the feeling with Bush/Cheney that if they could, they'd round up all of us who didn't share their vision of a blue-eyed gun-toting America-first Jesus due back to earth any time to strike down all those who didn't fit the mold and send us all to re-education camp until we saw the light. It seemed that so many of their decisions were made with this joyous end-game dancing in their heads.

Obama's making his share of missteps for sure, mainly I think in terms of communication and often in trying to bite off more than he can chew. But, man, I've never heard so much outrage about so little. I can see and appreciate and share in the colossal uproar about our financial institutions excesses that resulted in its collapse, a global depression, real estate crisis, and the government bailout that followed. But that happened before Obama came into office. The decision to bail them out was made by the Bush administration (though Obama agreed with and ultimately instituted it). I'd have personally let the institutions die and the chips fall where they may. Likely it would have been disastrous and probably it's good I'm not in charge. More than a few have postulated that there's a bit of "give me back my (white) country" going on here. Maybe not on a conscious level. But it's definitely there.

But enough about the sorry state of our political discord and other such mindless drivel. I wanted to talk about important things. Like television commercials.

I find commercials provide a good framework for articulating the ups and downs of life. They can also inspire hatred and love in my heart. Truly. Charles Schwab and the Chase Sapphire Visa couple bring out the vitriol in me like nothing else on this planet. I want to kill them and their families. Same with the Progressive Insurance gal. Conversely, I love the Old Spice ads and feel the same regarding the Most Interesting Man in the World.

Stay thirsty, my friends.

Fey-bulous

2010-04-11T17:18:00.001-04:00

I figured Tiny Fey on SNL last night deserved a mention: there were actually a couple of funny moments on a show that doesn't often have them these days. Brownie Husband might have been the best, and Fey's Palin hawking her own network was pretty great as well.

Saudi Sorcery and Middle Eastern Country Western Remembrances

2010-04-03T23:46:00.000-04:00

So the Saudis are on the brink of sawing a guy's head off for practicing "black magic" (i.e., fortune telling). Gotta love it. Granted, "Uncle Arthur" was pretty stupid for flying to Saudi Arabia in the first place, but it turns out he's a devout Shiite Muslim and was on a Hajj pilgrimage from his home country of Lebanon when he was arrested in 2008. Apparently Crockett and Tubbs from Medina Vice recognized this master criminal from the fortune telling TV show he does back in Lebanon and nabbed his ass to protect the faithful. Guess they don't burn their witches in SA and drowning is likewise too rock and roll. No faddish post-modern Salem stuff for them - beheadings are ever classic (they never seem to go out of style). Global outrage has succeeded in one stay of execution for our intrepid warlock but it's just a matter of time before they take a little too much off the top and that ol' black magic hasn't afforded him a means of escape (they must have his nose immobilized or else he'd have twinkled himself free by now, Samantha-style, though perhaps that only works for witches). Through it all, we American's just seem to go right on loving the Saudi government. What's a little human rights violation here, the number #1 breeding ground of terrorism there, when you're sitting on the lion's share of the world's oil reserves.

I had a chance to spent several weeks in Bahrain a little over 19 years ago and had a chance to witness the surreal on a nightly basis courtesy of the country western bar attached to my hotel. The Saudi Arabian government puts alcohol on similar footing with sorcery, so many of their citizens would make the drive over the causeway into Bahrain to get hammered at this shit kicker bar, in full out middle eastern garb save for the cowboy boots sticking out from under their robes. They'd be "ye-hawing" and two stepping it on the dance floor all evening and then presumably drive blind drunk back over the causeway back to the land of no-no-no. They seemed to be good guys mostly - hopefully they didn't kill themselves or somebody else (or lose their head at a DWI checkpoint). "I'm sorry, sir - have you been drinking? Yes? Could you please keep your chin up? You won't feel a thing ..." I'm not condoning drunk driving, certainly. Nor do I think much of fortune tellers - most of them are con artists and the rest simply fools, in my eyes. I don't think decapitation is the answer, though.

Personally, all this is just more affirmation of my passionate belief in non-belief. History is littered with such acts and far worse in the name of God; no religion is immune from this - certainly not those dealing in absolutes, which includes all the major ones.

So the Saudis are on my list. As are the Chase Sapphire couple who've seemingly amassed an endless supply of points having never actually used their credit card to earn them. I hope they ski off a mountain. And as always, "Chuck" Schwab. May everyone associated with these two advertising campaigns fry in their own special hell, forced to watch their insipid commercials endlessly for all eternity.

Happy Easter, Ester, Passover, Pass out, or whatever other reason you find to be happy. Just try not to be happy at the expense of another person's head ...

As Mr. Zimmerman said, "When you're lost in the rain in Juarez and it's Easter time too ..."

The Mouse That Was My Vietnam

2010-03-27T14:02:00.000-04:00

Posting here in the past has been a compulsion, a nervous tic; however, it was real easy to step away once I got sucked back into the workaday world at a job that required a bit more of my attention, as new jobs often do. But here I am, back again.

So what's going on? Not a lot - As I write this, I'm locked in mortal combat with a mouse who's invaded my home. I'm sure this fucker'll forever be two steps ahead of me as I waste far too much energy on hunting the beast down. I feel vaguely like Wile E. Coyote (or perhaps Al Bundy would be a better analogy). Why the anger toward this Disneysque creature? I'm sure the whiskered cutie breaks out in song after hours as I slumber, after all. And frankly it's nice to have company over - I should welcome him into the fold with a saucer of milk (saucer of cheese?) Ahh, fuck all that - I've got the traps all set up, so it's just a matter of time for him and his brethren. Short of that, I'm at the ready with my fireplace shovel to slap him into space, Scratchy-style. Then again, Scratchy is the one who is repeatedly pummeled by that little Itchy rodent. Where's Willard when you need him?

(Epilogue: The mouse is dead, long live the mouse. I found it this morning in the kitchen, caught in the web of one of my glue traps, poisoned by the bait and stuck. It had managed to slide the trap half way across the room, trying in vain to drag it with him under the stove but only half making it. Judging by the particular trap he was snarred in, I now know the tiny hole from which the guy made his entrance. Time to close it up. I feel awful about his demise but imagine he's only the first of an army, now seething with anger over my atrocity, much like Platoon's Sgt. Barnes in the village. I'm waiting for the Johnny Depp translator mouse to come up to me and start asking who the rice and the weapons are for ... er, I mean the glue traps and poison-laced bait. But I digress.)

Healthcare? Whatchutalkin'bout, Willis?

2010-03-15T21:42:00.001-04:00

I'm flipping through the channels and see that Larry King's guests tonight are Jesse Ventura and Todd Bridges. My mind reels trying to connect the dots between these two shining stars. Not so much that I'm tempted to actually watch the show and perhaps uncover this mystery. Bridges' appearance at this juncture is obviously connected to Corey Haim's passing (one "formerly" troubled ex-child star talking about a fellow traveler on the ash heap of has-been heaven recently crossed over to the other side). Jesse was big in the 80s as well, though he wasn't a child or on a sit-com. Perhaps Corey (or Todd) took to trolling on the pro wrestling circuit in their spare time (perhaps they all shot growth hormones together, sharing the same dirty needles).

Guess I'll have to switch on over after all ...

... Hey! What the fuck!?!? Jesse (and Rudy himself, Sean Astin) are on talking about healthcare! My God! The healthcare bill is now truly doomed! Rudy is stuttering on about how "there's some really good stuff in this bill" and "the people did speak, at the polls, and they want this." I agree with both sentiments but these guys aren't the ones you want convincing folks, do you?

Perhaps Larry's trying to reach those suspicious "salt of the earth" types by giving air time to common folks they can relate to. You know, like a kid who grew up in Hollywood riches (with Gomez Adams and Helen Keller/Identical Cousin Patty/Cathy as parents) and is perhaps best known as a hobbit (though he'll always be Rudy to me) along with a pro wrestler turned governor of a state that these salty types probably think is part of Canada (at best equating it to that Arctic berg who brought raging liberal commie pinko Al Franken to the Senate).

Maybe that's why Todd Bridges was booked - maybe he'll be giving his Healthcare pitch soon ... free smack for everyone! We don't need your help, Larry. Your very existence is a medical aberration so you shouldn't be doing healthcare themed shows, period (or anything beyond the increasingly Jerry Springeresque subject matter you've naturally gravitated to over the years).

Apocalypse Garden

2010-03-14T13:47:00.001-04:00

I haven't laughed so hard in months as I did this week with Stephen Colbert's take on one of Glenn Beck's advertisers: Survival Seeds. Apparently, this is a product to keep you self sufficient and fed during the end of days. As Stephen notes, "When you're tilling the earth with a human femur while the sky is raining fire, you'll want a reliable supply of radicchio and mini squash." Colbert added that those ponying up the duckets to advertise on the mighty Glenn Beck know very well one overriding fact: "Nothing sells like the hot stink of fear." Indeed.

Here's the actual commercial for your own "crisis garden":

The Sadists and Milkaholics Among Us

2010-03-09T22:10:00.001-05:00

The NFL's Cowardly Lion is receiving a "Courage" award this evening. Sadly, he doesn't play for Detroit but rather for Philadelphia, so I guess technically he's the Cowardly Eagle. And frankly the analogy falls flat on a more basic level: I actually liked the Wizard of Oz's Cowardly Lion (certainly I didn't despise him). Meanwhile, illegal dogfighting has risen 300% in the city of brotherly love since Vick came to town. He's about as effective an anti-dog fighting advocate as Big Tobacco is in driving the nation's anti-smoking campaign.

In other dingbat news, Lindsay Lohan is suing E-Trade over the little baby "Lindsay the milkaholic" ad they've been running since the Superbowl. She wants 20 million dollars and all copies turned over to her, claiming that the name "Lindsay" is as singular as "Oprah" or "Madonna" or "Sting." Not really much I can add except to say that until I read this complaint a couple minutes ago, I didn't make the connection and I've seen the spot a number of times. Perhaps others made the leap.

Well, I felt obligated to post something here (not sure why; it's been awhile I guess). And now I have to get back to National Geographic network for their illicit drug marathon (LCD followed by THC followed by Meth). That's as close as I get to intoxication these day. Of course, some claim quite rightly that television is our nation's most addictive and damaging drug of all. Maybe I'll watch Dragnet's "Blue Boy" episode after finishing these off. Peace.

The Rumblings of Planet Earth

2010-02-27T13:15:00.002-05:00

The Earth is once again giving us just a minor taste of how insignificant we tiny bags of biologic chemicals and mostly water are in the grand scheme of this planet's evolution.

The earthquake in Chile this morning, though one of the largest ever recorded at magnitude 8.8, didn't cause catastrophic loss of life anywhere near the scale seen in Haiti. Which might seem odd to some, since the quake itself was 500 times more powerful than the one which ripped through Port Au Prince last month. Chile is obviously a much more prosperous country than Haiti and its infrastructure has evolved specifically to deal with earthquakes and other natural disasters in mind, which helps limit the damage. In many ways, Haiti and Chile are on opposite ends of the two extremes in this regard. Another difference is that the epicenter was 22 miles underground, 70 miles from Concepcion and 200 miles from Santiago (it wasn't a direct strike on a large city). Still, over a hundred are known dead so far and likely many more before it's said and done. The direct strike was on the coast, resulting in a massive tsunami whose destruction is spreading far beyond the local region, threatening a good chunk of the pacific (warnings are in place as far away as Hawaii and Australia). Good thoughts to our brothers and sisters in the southern hemisphere and pacific basin while they deal with this crisis.

This is a good time to remind folks that the people in Haiti are still hurting and will be for a long, long time. Without any sort of lasting infrastructure to help them. Please give if you can. The global news cycle and associated throng of media have largely moved on to more recent events as is natural, but that doesn't mean things are all that much better here ...

Perhaps it's too soon for jokes but I've given fair warning that my humor trends toward the dark side. When I first saw the news this morning on TV and they were showing damage in Santiago, I immediately thought of Something About Mary. Specifically, the scene in which Pat Healy, pretending to be an architect, slings bullshit at Harvard educated and renowned British architect Tucker, who he thinks is the real deal (but who later turns out to be a pizza delivery man named Norm from New Jersey). Hint: neither of them have ever been to Chile.

Tucker: Really? Where would I have seen your work?
Pat Healy: Well, have you been to, uh well, let me see... Santiago, Chile?
Tucker: Twice last year. Which building's yours?
Pat Healy: Oh. Emm ... are you familiar with the soccer stadium?
Tucker: Did you build the Estadio Olimpico?!?

Pat Healy: No, just down the street the Celinto Catayente Towers. It's quite a fine example, in fact! I recommend that next time you're up that way that you drop in and take a gander at it yourself.

Here's hoping the Celinto Catayente Towers is okay.

And in all seriousness, best wishes to all affected by this tragedy. Give to the Red Cross, please. For Chile, Haiti, and all those hurt by Mother Nature's wrath. The Red Cross is pretty good at getting the cash to those who need it most.

"Talk" to you again maybe next weekend. My flu's in the rear view mirror and it's time to tackle all things technology again for awhile. If you're a masochist who finds something interesting on these pages, you can always visit my technology blog as it's more likely that I'll post there during the week. Of course, I can't guarantee you'll like the subject matter much; often times, I don't either :-).

Stacking The Brooms

2010-02-26T23:22:00.000-05:00

I've been watching the women's curling gold medal for the past two hours. And I don't even have a fever anymore. As I write this, they're going to "extra ends." A real thriller, with Canadian pride hanging on the line!

I've really been getting into this sport with a vengeance over these Olympics and don't understand why others can't see its genius.

I guess that's why there hasn't been a decent curling movie produced (or any curling movie at all, for that matter). To that end, I'm going to write one, inspired by the '70's classic Slap Shot.

Burt Reynolds will be perfect in the Paul Newman role as player/coach Reggie Dunlop (the "skip" in curling parlance). Of course, we'll need to have the Hanson Brothers. This time the boys will forever be getting in trouble for "high broom sticking" and "rock greasing."

Finally, let's not forget Ogie Ogilthorpe, the notorious Federal League goon. In my curling-infused re-telling, he'll be infamous for his "prison shower" shenanigans (suffice to say it involves a sharpened curling broom handle levied in the vicinity of the opponent's thrower, just as he's bent over about to deliver the rock). You'll laugh, you'll cry - it'll be better than Cats. Of course, we'll need a new title. I like Stacking The Brooms.

Mary-Louise + Costello = Healing

2010-02-24T22:31:00.003-05:00

Elvis Costello turning the table on his Sundance Spectacle show: he's the one being interviewed this time and by no other than Mary-Louise Parker. Mary-Louise is a Costello fan? I didn't think I could be more infatuated with her but apparently I can. I do believe that I'll head to NYC right now and start my new career as her personal stalker (I hope the position is open). I didn't know Mary-Louise was a music journalist in addition to her award winning stage and screen talents. She writes a semi-regular column for Esquire. I'll be checking out her work at once! And we share the same favorite Elvis album (Imperial Bedroom). The close up of her swaying to Elvis singing Town Cryer is almost enough to make me ... well, I'm only human (and I think I'm Turning Japanese, I really think so ...)

I needed this shot in the arm. Because apparently other shots in the arm I've received were a bit less than effective. Specifically, I refer to the flu shots I got in August and again in November, both received while in the depths of the flu. The end of February and I've been knocked out with influenza once again, just now climbing out of the shit tank. Perhaps I should have gotten an anti-flu shot instead or at least one that lasts more than a few days. Thanks, Dr. Nick! I can't wait for spring to get here. As one who hates the sunshine and flowers, I never thought I'd hear myself saying that but there it is. Say goodbye to sickness and snow. He says with another half foot of snow on the way tomorrow ...

In the meantime, I'll throw Imperial Bedroom on the stereo and a re-run of Weeds on the screen and veg myself to sleep in my recliner ...

Digging Skeleton and Graves

2010-02-20T19:49:00.000-05:00

I'm OD'ing on Raspberry Diet Snapple and watching the Olympics. My favorite sport, Skeleton, is now over (Luge is for chicken-shit wimps). Skeleton riders go head first and the sleds are not allowed to have steering or brakes. But there's still freestyle aerial skiing and more alpine action to be had. And, always, curling on the lesser NBC channels. Almost Famous is on the tube so I find myself switching back and forth between the Olympics and that. I always gravitate to Almost Famous: any movie that includes Lester Bangs as a character is okay in my book.

Speaking of Lester Bangs, and other dead people, I stumbled across a fine online service today that helps you get the low down on the disposition of a dearly departed's remains. It's called, appropriately enough, Find A Grave. I can't believe I haven't found a need for their services up to this point. Finally, a site with a useful purpose. I dig it.

No Hyperbole About It

2010-02-17T23:28:00.000-05:00

I've never posted simply to point people to someone else's blog, but I really think Allie of Hyperbole and a Half could be famous one day. She's got a huge talent for comedic story telling and mad skills for lunatic illustrations. She's got a Ralph Steadman thing going with the drawings. And that's high praise indeed, in my book.

Sweepers, Sweepers: Man Your Brooms

2010-02-17T22:30:00.001-05:00

ActivStyle is the latest service sprung up to satisfy the incontinence craze sweeping our nation. According to the commercial, your "personal incontinence consultant" will guide you through the maze of bowel and bladder control products on the market today, ensuring your needs are met. Tell me, sir, do you shit your drawers, piss your pants, or both? Or are you just a dribbler? I want to be sure I formulate a plan custom made just for you! When I'm finished, we'll plug those leaky holes of yours so tight that there'll be no need for you to carry that mop and bucket around where ever you go anymore ...

Speaking of mopping up, I'm quite fascinated by the sport of curling and have been since I was a little kid. I grew up about 75 miles south of Vancouver, B.C. back when there was no cable television, so you got whatever channels your rabbit ears could pick up. In addition to the Seattle network affiliates, we got several Canadian stations and it seemed like curling was on one or the other practically 24/7. I've lived in Philadelphia almost 25 years and so don't get the chance to see curling much these days, but the arrival of the Winter Olympics brings a bit of my childhood back home to me once again.

I guess it's curling's strange shuffleboard meets mopping the floor that feeds my interest. Perhaps it's no accident that the sport has become somewhat of a metaphor for my life at sea: I did lots of mopping and sweeping the decks in the Navy and later ventured out on a couple of short pleasure cruises where you could play shuffleboard, if you were so inclined. Curling brings those two disparate experiences together for me, tying them together along with the experience of my younger self so taken with the sport from the great white north as a child.

As much as I "enjoy" curling, I'm even more fascinated by cricket, having been glued to the TV for hours watching it from the hotel whenever I'm in Europe. I think the attraction there is that though I've watched extensively, I'm to this day completely confused by what's going on. I do know they break for tea several times in the ten years it feels like it takes to complete a match. They have bowlers and batsmen, and it's vaguely like baseball mixed with croquet. I'm aware that there's a lot of talk about "overs" and such. Simply magnificent.

But cricket's for another time. It's the Winter Olymics now. Sure, it's great to see Lindsey Vonn come through with the Gold, even with a bum shin. Gold too for mogul chick extraordinaire Hanna Kearney earlier in the week. And Shaun White will do his thing tonight and likely grab the top prize. But me? I recorded CNBC's coverage of curling this afternoon and plan to hunker down this later this evening and transport myself back to those childhood days of yore in front of the tube, digging on this sport of kings (well, sport of kings' housekeepers anyway).

Sweepers, sweepers: man your brooms ... Fellow travelers who are familiar with that siren song understand.

My Life So Far (Based on the Novel By ...)

2010-02-13T16:00:00.005-05:00

This one is harder - I tend not to read books in the same year they're published (with a few exceptions). So tying a book to a particular year is tough. Syd Hoff was my literary hero when I was first introduced to the joys of reading by my mother at the age of three. From three to six, it was all about Syd. It turns out that Syd and I share a birthday (September 4th), though I didn't know it until about five minutes ago when I looked him up on Wikipedia. It turns out that you can sort of classify my love of reading into eras:

The Syd Hoff Era.

Mid-60's
Danny and the Dinosaur, Sammy the Seal, Chester The Horse

The Hugh Lofting's Doctor Dolittle Era

Late 60's

The Donald Sobol's Encyclopedia Brown Era

Late 60's

The S.E. Hinton Era

Early / mid-70's

The Hunter S. Thompson Era

Late 70's, all of the 80's, much of the 90's

The Jay McInerney/Bret Easton Ellis Era

Late 80's through the mid-90's

Everything Else (1975 to present)

I strayed a little, of course. During the prepubescent eras, The Phantom Tollbooth was the most significant of the "one hit wonders" I loved. And Where The Wild Things Are around the same time as Syd. Later came the Everything Else era which meant literally that: any single author/genre/whatever was now beside the point.

Everything Else started around 1975 when I made it out from the downstairs backroom of the Everett Public Library upstairs to the land of big people's books. Manchild in the Promised Land was the first "adult" strength read, a tale of growing up that was grown up with a vengeance. And wholly foreign from my way of life. In other words, brilliant.

The late 70's found me devouring Creem and Rolling Stone, the former handing me Lester Bangs and the latter the works of Hunter S. Thompson. That was all she wrote. Lester and Hunter were gods to me, especially Hunter. For me, there's Hunter and then there's everybody else. Even his later work, when he got lazy and repetitive. Didn't matter, it was all fantastic. It taught me what the truth really means.

Of the fictional variety, I loved/love Bret Easton Ellis (especially American Psycho), Jay McInerney (especially Story of My Life), Joseph Heller (especially Something Happened), John Irving (especially A Prayer for Owen Meany), F. Scott Fitzgerald (especially Gatsby and The Beautiful and Damned), William Burroughs (especially Junky), Charlies Bukowski (especially Ham on Rye), James Frey (I love his style, and especially A Million Little Pieces, even more now that I know portions were made up), Leon Uris (especially Trinity and The Haj).

My favorite book of all, hands down, no-contest, is A Confederacy of Dunces by John Kennedy Toole. I first read it in the early 1980's and have since re-read it a number of times. It never gets old.

The only book of any heft that I've read in one sitting on a single day is Christine by Stephen King. I'm not a huge King fan but have read more than a few of his tomes, many of them simply wonderful. I happened to start Christine early morning hunkered down in the laundry room on board CVN 69 while floating around the Mediterranean Sea during the summer of 1983. I was new to the ship, working in the Intelligence Center, but temporarily assigned to clean my division's enlisted sleeping area. Most lowly straight-outta-school enlisted types take a turn at this and the duties included doing the entire division's dirty clothes and towels. There was only one laundry room available and it was particularly backed up on this day, so I spent thirteen hours head resting on the large sacks of clothes, waiting for and then doing the shitload of uniforms, towels and other at-sea personal items I was stuck with. I spent that time with Christine.

Lately I've been going through random stuff, whatever I find on Amazon or in Borders. I love the Japanese novelist Natsuo Kirino, especially Out. Even translated, her books are bitter, cynical, funny, just great.

In the last dozen or so years, I would have to say that my favorite single book has been Lives of the Monster Dogs by Kirsten Bakis, published in the late 90's. God I hope she publishes again one day.

As evidenced by my King affection, I'm not immune to the charms of McNovels. I've enjoyed those by the likes of Tom Clancy, John Grisham and Michael Crichton, especially the latter. If I'm stuck at an airport and find myself without a book, these guys are nothing if not consistent. Crichton was a Harvard M.D. whose first book was a non-fiction account of modern medicine circa 1970, entitled Five Patients. It's one of my favorites. As is The Andromeda Strain. These guys tend to have good story structure but mostly fall short on character development and prose/imagery. Characters and imagery are the most important qualities of a good read for my money, but I can and do take story structure alone in a pinch. Sometimes you're surprised by these guys and get a good chunk of all three.

So that's the "list" as best I can put it. It's out of phase, out of time, not particularly linear. I've read a helluva lot more books than I've seen movies, more even than I've listened to songs (I'm not talking casually listening here, which I do many times a day, but really focused listening). Still, I can't bring myself to associate any one to a given year.

For those that suffered through this self indulgent literary life crawl, you can take comfort in the fact that I'm done with this particular obsession. No more lists for a while.

Now I need to go out to the porch and chip the rest of the ice off my front strairs (wouldn't want the postman to slip, fall and sue me). Then it's time to prepare for Chinese New Year coming our way tomorrow. The Year of the Tiger, my Chinese astrological sign. Of course, in China it's already tomorrow and Chinese Dick Clark has long since hosted the ball drop from Tiananmen Square. Back here in Philly, I need to get my last ditch New Year's Resolutions in order before our time about eight hours hence.

Oh, it's also Valentine's Day tomorrow. I don't know why Billy Ray Valentine gets to have his own day, but apparently he does. I'll drink some frozen orange juice in his honor.

My Life So Far (The Original Motion Picture Motion Pictures)

2010-02-12T23:00:00.004-05:00

When I said I wouldn't be posting here on a near daily basis anymore ... well, today is an anomaly. I think.

Like the songs, these aren't necessarily my favorite films, though certainly a good chunk of them qualify as such. Some of them are pretty bad, in retrospect. In the end, these are movies that remind me strongly of a particular year in my life (whether personal or in a historical context).

1962. Days of Wine and Roses
1963. Irma la Douce
1964. Dr. Strangelove (Or How I Stopped Worrying And Learned To Love The Bomb)
1965. A Patch of Blue
1966. Batman
1967. The Graduate
1968. The Producers
1969. Midnight Cowboy
1970. M.A.S.H.
1971. Klute
1972. The Godfather
1973. American Graffiti
1974. The Godfather Part II
1975. Dog Day Afternoon
1976. Rocky
1977. Star Wars
1978. Grease
1979. Apocalypse Now
1980. Raging Bull
1981. Reds
1982. Fast Times at Ridgemont High
1983. Local Hero
1984. Splash
1985. St. Elmo's Fire
1986. Platoon
1987. Barfly
1988. The Last Temptation of Christ
1989. Heathers
1990. Goodfellas
1991. The Silence of the Lambs
1992. Glengarry Glen Ross
1993. True Romance
1994. Pulp Fiction
1995. Leaving Las Vegas
1996. Beautiful Girls
1997. Boogie Nights
1998. The Big Lebowski
1999. Being John Malkovich
2000. Almost Famous
2001. Vanilla Sky
2002. Minority Report
2003. Lost In Translation
2004. Garden State
2005. Sin City
2006. United 93
2007. Gone Baby Gone
2008. The Dark Knight

2009. District 9

A Whole New Meaning To "How 'bout them Cowboys?"

2010-02-12T21:03:00.000-05:00

"Go Long!"

That's Jimmy Johnson's tag line as the new spokesman for ExtenZe, the "male enhancement" product. That's not a joke. I saw it myself early this morning on TV, his jovial fat face stuffed under that silver pompadour of his, yakking away about how everyone loves "bigger and better."

And Johnson, the longtime college and pro football head coach and current Fox Sports NFL analyst, is no cynical paid celebrity stooge, just in it for the buck. No, he's apparently a long-time enthusiastic customer. He might have a few Super Bowl rings on his fingers to boost his ego but they did no good I guess in boosting the length of his disco stick. And thus, "go long!"

My Life So Far (The Original Motion Picture Soundtrack)

2010-02-12T19:30:00.019-05:00

These aren't necessarily my favorite songs (if that were the case, songs from 1965 and 1977 and 79 would consume almost every slot). No, rather these are songs that remind me of a particular year in my life. I might have been obsessed with the song, or heard it a lot on the radio. For the songs prior to 1972, they remind me of a year in a historical rather than personal context, since I didn't really pay attention to music as such prior to my 10th birthday. I've added more than one song per year only when I felt that one alone could not convey those 12 months for me (the mid-60's and late-70's, mostly).

I'm not sure why I felt the urge to list these here, but the compulsion was strong nonetheless. I'm sure books, films and TV shows are soon to follow, I must warn you. Or not. You were warned.

1962. The Wanderer by Dion
1963. Please Mr. Postman by The Beatles (ironic that my favorite Beatles recording is a cover?)
1964. Don't Worry Baby by The Beach Boys
1965. Desolation Row, Ballad of a Thin Man and Positively 4th Street by Bob Dylan followed with You've Got To Hide Your Love Away by The Beatles
1966. California Dreamin' by the Mamas and the Papas followed with Rain by The Beatles
1967. Heroin by The Velvet Underground followed with Suzanne by Leonard Cohen
1968. Ball and Chain by Janis Joplin/Big Brother and Holding Co.
1969. Suspicious Minds by Elvis Presley followed with Gimme Shelter by The Rolling Stones
1970. God by John Lennon followed with Dress Rehearsal Rag by Leonard Cohen followed with I Think I Love You by The Partridge Family (which one is my favorite now?)
1971. Moonlight Mile by The Rolling Stones followed with Yo-Yo by the Osmonds (which one was my favorite at the time?)
1972. Layla by Derek and the Dominos
1973. Captain Jack by Billy Joel
1974. Seasons in the Sun by Terry Jacks followed with Kung Fu Fighting by Karl Douglas (we could play records on Friday in math class at George Washington Carver Middle School 7th Grade)
1975. Backstreets by Bruce Springsteen
1976. Dancing Queen by ABBA followed with Blitzkrieg Bop and Now I Wanna Sniff Some Glue by the Ramones followed with I've Loved These Days by Billy Joel followed with Night Moves by Bob Seger
1977. Alison by Elvis Costello followed with Career Opportunities by The Clash followed with Anarchy in the UK by Sex Pistols followed with Sheena Is A Punk Rocker by the Ramones
1978. Badlands and Racing In The Street by Bruce Springsteen followed with Big Shot by Billy Joel followed with (I Don't Want To Go To) Chelsea by Elvis Costello followed with I Wanna Be Sedated by the Ramones
1979. Dance This Mess Around by the B-52s followed with Oliver's Army by Elvis Costello followed with Discovering Japan by Graham Parker followed with Alternative Ulster by Stiff Little Fingers
1980. London Calling by The Clash followed with Los Angeles by X
1981. Shot With His Own Gun by Elvis Costello followed with Seven Year Ache by Roseanne Cash
1982. Mexican Radio by Wall of Voodoo followed with Add It Up by Violent Femmes
1983. Sunday Bloody Sunday by U2 followed with An Innocent Man by Billy Joel
1984. Country Death Song by Violent Femmes followed with Don't Go Back To Rockville by REM
1985. Just Like Honey by Jesus and the Mary Chain
1986. Dear God by XTC
1987. I Still Haven't Found What I'm Looking For by U2
1988. Everybody Knows by Leonard Cohen
1989. Fight the Power by Public Enemy followed with Tramp The Dirt Down by Elvis Costello
1990. Last Day of Our Acquaintance by Sinead O'Connor
1991. Smells Like Teen Spirit by Nirvana
1992. Runaway Train by Soul Asylum
1993. Flower by Liz Phair
1994. Doll Parts by Hole
1995. Sinaloa Cowboys by Bruce Springsteen
1996. Criminal by Fiona Apple
1997. Tubthumping by Chumbawamba
1998. Intergalactic by Beastie Boys
1999. Sleep Now In The Fire by Rage Against The Machine
2000. Stan by Eminem
2001. The Blower's Daughter by Damien Rice
2002. Complicated by Avril Lavigne
2003. Knockin' On Heaven's Door by Warren Zevon
2004. American Idiot by Green Day
2005. Reno by Bruce Springsteen
2006. Black Cadillac by Roseanne Cash followed with Dancing Shoes by Arctic Monkeys
2007. Sweet Jane by Cowboy Junkies
2008. The Bright Lights of America and The Modern Rome Burning by Anti-Flag

2009. Sulfur To Sugarcane by Elvis Costello followed with Lust For Life by Girls followed with Bad Romance by Lady Gaga

POL Wars Redux: The Loxodonta Empire Strikes Back (Linger on ... Your Palin Blue Eyes - apologies to Lou Reed)

2010-02-10T15:57:00.010-05:00

I'm re-posting a July musing of mine, partly because I'm lazy and partly because it's even more relevant today given the current political environment. Yesterday's satire and hyperbole become tomorrow's news, sadly. But still, it'll be mostly a "Re-run." That's for you late 70's TV aficionados.

It's snowing another couple of feet today after getting nailed with two feet just a couple of days ago. I already shoveled last night's eight inches of the sleet infused sno-cone filler off my walk this morning, taking advantage of a break in the storm. It's going to be mighty painful shoveling for sure, after today's blizzard dumps another foot or so, with nowhere to put this new load of frozen H2O except to the top of the piles already there (lots of back twisting and muscle spasms in my future).

Before I re-post, I have to note two things I learned last night flipping through the channels that I really didn't want to know:

Michael Jackson made a habit of peeing into bottles rather than a toilet, often doing so in front of others, even casual acquaintances, without a hint of self consciousness. Apparently, half empty bottles of his wiz littered the Jackson estate. They say it started back in his prepubescent Jackson-5 days when there were often no bathrooms within easy reach of the stage at the venues in which they performed. Thanks for expanding my Jack-o knowledge to new depths, E.
There's a product called Kitchen Guard for those people who really hate the mess left behind by traditional fire extinguishers. Damn, I saved my house from burning down but just look at all the foam on the stove! I guess if the price is right, it might be a fine addition to my kitchen essentials. Maybe it serves two purposes, a la New Shimmer. In this case, instead of being both a floor wax and a desert topping, perhaps it's a fire extinguisher and a PAM-like no-stick cooking oil (it is an aerosol spray, after all).

And now, a re-post from early July 2009, enhanced with linked references, illustrations and an updated 2010 present tense!

I figure we're in the early stages of the Empire Strikes Back if one were to apply 'Lucas'-onian ('Lucas'que?) principles to current American political reality. The election of 2008 was the attack on the death star, the climax of A New Hope. Or, more appropriately, A New Audacity of Hope. But we're a couple of years yet away from Obama losing his hand to Dick Cheney and finding out the uncomfortable truth about his lineage. (Kenya is not Wyoming? They have similar forms of democracy, I've heard.)

Rom Emanuel is Han Solo; David Axelrod, Yoda; Hillary, Leia

Joe Biden is Chewbacca (or maybe he's Jar Jar, arriving appropriately inappropriate into the wrong movie).

Or maybe I have it all wrong and Cheney is the Emperor.

The appendage, perhaps then, is due to be lopped off by Darth Palin ("Barack, I am your Mother").

Perhaps, too, I also have wrong the particular appendage that is in peril.

It sort of fits, though.

Think about it. Okay, don't think so much - feel about it - the truthiness can't be denied.

They both apparently enjoy basketball (or, in Darth Sarah's case, at least basketball analogies and how apparently all the great basketball players like to leave the game in the 4th quarter). She can see Russia from her house - he saw Russia from his mobile home (Air Force One).

You'd think that her youth would rule such a thing out, but I always thought that she had a little 'Highlander' in her ('There can be only one - please God').

This would all imply that he got his literacy, poise, and sanity from his father's side of the family.

But the opening credits have barely trailed off the screen - we have a long way to go before we have to worry about Ewoks roaming the planet, Hip waders drying in the east room, book burnings and literature lynchings, and Michelle's garden giving way to a smelt pond.

A while to enjoy things before Mrs. Maverick and her Alaskan Geese (apologies to Dr. Green) go to Washington while Jimmy Stewart does cartwheels in his casket.

And that's another movie for another time. But be forewarned: put your affairs in order while you can.

"I found America hiding in the corner of my wallet

It's a well kept secret, thought that I had better swallow it

Before they make me spit out the truth

Before they find you're lying about your youth

B movie, that's all you are to me

Just a soft soap story

Don't want the woman to adore me

You can't stand it when it goes from real to reel

Too real too real

You can't stand it when I throw punch lines you can feel" - Declan Patrick MacManus, 1979

Dyslexic Misanthrope

2010-02-05T22:16:00.003-05:00

Dr. G is now on the Discovery Science Channel! So there's a chance Oprah's destruction of Discovery Health next year won't mean the end of my favorite Medical Examiner (sorry, Dr. Quincy). There's some solace in that.

Meanwhile, in other important television doings, Five-0's Steve McGarrett was on the witness stand on WFMZ 69 this afternoon. Steve was testifying against some super villain loan shark and talking turkey about the exorbitant interest rates in the leg-breaking business, or "the juice, as it's called in the underworld parlance." Classic McGarrett-speak. Shuffling between that and a Twilight Zone marathon on the SciFi Channel brings to an end my last week on the dole, topped off with a rousing snow storm to boot.

And down the snow tumbles. I can hear all the fuckers up and down my block cackling with glee at the chance to rock and roll tomorrow with their machines of destruction. You know, I can't believe, we're on the eve of destruction. They're probably already hunkered down in their garages, greasing up their Sno-Blower 10000s for the big day tomorrow, anxious to gun the engines and shoot that snow a mile high in the sky before crashing it back down to earth all over my freshly hand-shoveled walk, erasing the fruits of my manual labor.

The idiot across the street from me was revving up his monstrous contraption this afternoon before a flake had even hit the ground. It was like qualifying day at the Indy 500. Better find my headphones so I can drown out the screams of 20 Blowers doing their synchronized dance tomorrow while I'm breaking my back with the ol' faithful $5 plastic shovel. I think a little Never Mind the Bollocks on the iPod will serve as a gentle alternative soundtrack to my back breaking efforts. My body is already aching just thinking about it. Of course I covered this neighbor problem in a December post, where I swore I'd break into my each of their garages at the dawn of the next big snowfall and fill the gas tanks of their blowers with nitroglycerin. Better set my alarm early tomorrow. :-)

But who am I kidding? I'm a dyslexic misanthrope: whenever I get especially angry at someone or something, I tend to take it out on myself, no matter how much I may want to lay into the true target of my fury. It's perhaps just something ingrained into my DNA? Nah. Odds are, it was tattooed onto my psyche by off-brand byzantine parenting since recalled.

I'm going to be signing off from this blog for the most part while I get back down to the business of business. That means more postings on my technology blog at the expense of this one. I'll still be checking in from time to time but probably not at the near daily clip I'd been posting to date, tossing globs of drivel-laden keystrokes at the web and watching precious little of it stick. Which is not to say that the quality will improve just because I have a go at it less. But I'll feel more guilty if it isn't. So I'll try.

"Dip - ri - van! It's my life and it's my wife ..."

2010-02-03T10:54:00.007-05:00

Lots of slow - and not so slow - dancing going on this week ...

First, Rush Limbaugh boogied on camera to the beat of Lady Gaga at the Miss America pageant on Saturday night, no doubt helped by the halo of Oxycontin-based opiates tap dancing down his brain stem. When Rush is "rushing on his run" - which is always - bet he "feels just like Jesus' Son."

The dancing will be (mainly) verbal as John Stewart heads back to the O'Reilly Factor tonight and tomorrow for a two part taped interview between the Daily Show razor wit and the "No Spin Zone" host and resident wit of nits. Should be something to behold. Stewart was on Bill-O's show a little more than 5 years ago during an equally volatile time in American Politics (it was just a few weeks shy of the 2004 election). A good time was had by all. Gitcha popcorn ready.

To get us primed, how about a golden oldie from Bill O'Reilly back in the early 1990's ...

Meanwhile, Michael Jackson's really, really slow dancing coach and Pusher/Doctor is finally "ready" to turn himself into the authorities. Jesus, this thing is dragging out, almost as slowly as your heart beats when Heir Doktor Conrad Murray puts that spike into your vein. The good Dr. Murray was Jackson's "travel agent" of choice, sending him off on many a Diprivan-fueled "anesthesiologist's holiday" with a skillful drip of the IV into MJ's blood stream. I hear tell Michael was thinking of remaking the Velvet Underground's classic "Heroin" as "Diprivan" but I might have heard wrong ...

Speaking of dancing (and heroin) ...

Leif Garrett, former 70's Tiger Beat mainstay (he of "I Was Made For Dancin'" teenybopper fame; see below), was busted for heroin possession for the second time while loitering around LA's mass transit system (Los Angeles has mass transit?!?). His previous LA transit bust occurred when he attempted to jump the turnstiles for a free ride and was caught holding. This time, Cherry Valance's evil Soc boyfriend Bob was apparently shaking and sweating up a storm on the train platform when the cops came upon him. Garrett has been dancing with Mr. Brownstone for nearly 30 years now and apparently has not quite hit bottom just yet.

I didn't fit Leif's teen idol target demographic and hated his sort of "music" but do remember his picture plastered everywhere in the late 70's and I did dig his 1999 VH1 Behind the Music special. Seems they need to write yet another chapter. He's just about my age and so serves as at least one Ghost of Christmas Past, Present, or Future for my generation. Which one? Depends on your perspective and outlook, but I'm hoping he's not the Ghost of Christmas Future. He's certainly one barometer of where you stack up/how far you've come since the disco days of yore. Here's hoping you measure up fairly well when judged relative to Mr. Garrett. Leif, we hardly knew ye ...

A Rip Roarin' Time ...

2010-01-31T14:28:00.006-05:00

And the Hunter S. Hunter Memorial Intoxicated Revelry Lifetime Achievement Award for 2010 goes to ... drum roll ... Elmore "Rip" Torn!

Mr. Torn has not only built an enviable body of work in this arena over the course of his long career but is perhaps at the top of his game today, at nearly 79 years of age, when many of his contemporaries have slowed down, retired or passed on to their great reward.

From the knife-wielding confrontation with Dennis Hopper during pre-production of Easy Rider (after which he lost the part to Jack Nicholson, even though it was written specifically for him) to his inebriated hammer fight with Norman Mailer in 1971, right up to his arrest Friday night for attempted burglary of a Connecticut bank blind drunk with an unregistered gun, he's done it all. Admittedly, this last masterpiece appears to be unintentional (the "breaking into the bank" part, not the "get smashed to beat the band" piece): he apparently thought he was locked out of his own house when he broke in. But that only makes his talent instinctive, primordial. There is no pretense to his handiwork.

Mr. Torn hasn't slowed down in his golden years, having turned the streets of Manhattan into his own personal pinball machine through much of the 00's, as demonstrated through numerous DUIs there. My favorite performance of his involved him apparently going to a bar and getting hammered after picking up a Christmas tree and then attempting to drive home from the watering hole after last call, weaving through the streets with the evergreen tied to the hood of the car.

Maybe it's telling that he has a degree in Animal Husbandry: he's been doing research into their psyche ever since. "He who makes a beast of himself gets rid of the pain of being a man" - Dr. Samuel Johnson. Hunter Thompson included it in the epigram to Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas and often used the quote when describing his work and lifestyle. Fittingly, Rip Torn follows its creed as well.

Oh, Rip has also managed to find to squeeze in some movie and TV show appearances to pay for what has always been his first love, revelry. In fact, he's as much a prolific actor as he is a batshit drunken loon. Ironically, Torn often chooses to play the stable, in-charge character on screen, in sharp contrast to his real-life John Blutarsky / Raoul Duke proclivities.

Still, Torn's career is not yet complete. I'm speaking of course about his obvious pairing with Rip Taylor, the crowned queen of confetti and fellow master thespian.

I'm still waiting patiently for the Vegas act of "Taylor and Torn: Rip Squared" to hit the strip. Or maybe a series of buddy movies with the two (a Lethal Weapon/48 Hours remake, perhaps; maybe Grumpy Psychotic Men?)

Or - yes, this is it! - a further re-imagining of Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, with Torn as Raoul Duke - out of his mind on booze and drugs behind the wheel through Barstow, motoring toward Sin City - and Taylor as his wacky attorney Dr. Gonzo, riding shot gun and heaving ginormous bags of confetti out into the wind and onto the desert highway behind them.

Oh come on, guys! Maybe you need a refresher course: it's all ballbearings nowadays!

2010-01-30T15:16:00.007-05:00

Ahh, a chilly Saturday with Fletch on the tube. Things could be worse.

Following this masterpiece up is hard work, but Discovery Health comes to the rescue with an update on the Mermaid Girl/Last Six Months. What a channel! Speaking of which, what was on tap in prime time this past week? Why Paralyzed and Pregnant, of course. Clearly must-see-TV. And our television overlord - Oprah - is going to shut this network down? For shame, Ms. Winfrey! Somehow I doubt the divine Ms. W's Oprah Network will feature such riveting fare.

But I have more on my mind than a continuing obsession with Discovery Health. What else could I possibly obsess on with Weeds and Mad Men on hiatus, you may ask? I was really looking forward to catching Mary-Louise Parker in Howl, but that flick's release date mysteriously slipped from January to December.

Which leaves me ... where?

On the personal front, I'm doing the eHarmony thing but still no "commercial-worthy" true love tales to be had. I thought for just a short while that I had happened upon a soul mate but after a number of weeks and a number of dates, things fizzled. Such is life. I'll keep you posted. ... well, maybe. Probably not. And if so, only vaguely, without dish, dirt, names or details.

On the professional front, I'm still exploring my options. I formed an L.L.C. - Technology Artisans. I spent a grand total of about 30 seconds pondering over the name, which probably wasn't wise but I gotta be true to my "spontaneous" nature. I hadn't even thought about it until I started filling out the online incorporation form and then - well, my session was about to expire so I needed something and this came to mind. For many years, I had planned to call my first company SML, Inc. after a Schlitz Malt Liquor promotional Christmas poster featuring a comely woman dressed in a Santa's Hottie Helper outfit. A bunch of us were renting a large, falling-apart-at-the-seams "animal house" many years ago and we had this poster hanging with pride in the living room (they were giving them away at a local beer distributor). We used to laugh and say that it would become our corporate logo and SML, Inc. would be the organization's name. A few of us talked about this for years after the poster lost its luster and found a home in the trash. But in the end, I relented.

Why Technology Artisans? To quote Bluto from Animal House, "Why not?" Anyway, I formed the company mainly so that I could negotiate corporation-to-corporation consulting agreements, if I even end up going that route. On that front, I have a multitude of consulting opportunities on the horizon right now and determining which of them I want to pursue is the challenge. But that's kind of dry shit for a blog and I've already rattled on far too long on the subject ...

Well, what's in the news???

J.D. Salinger died, but there have been more than enough gushing tributes piled on elsewhere concerning the reclusive writer. Like most young people of a certain age, I read The Catcher in the Rye and identified with its protagonist, Holden Caulfield. So did everyone from Bill Clinton to Mark David Chapman. I have nothing interesting to add. It's not like ol' J.D. was all that prolific, and Rye isn't particularly close to the top of my list of favorite books. That said, a lot of the works enshrined into my particular literary hall of fame are by writers who in turn were strongly influenced by Salinger. So he's a favorite by proxy. Again, a quick googling of Salinger will lead you the way to numerous platitudes and eulogies far more eloquent than I could manage.

Politics was as hot a topic as it's ever been this week. It started with the continuing coronation of Scottie "Centerfold" Brown while the donkeys continued to stumble over their own ineptitude, quaking with fear over the elephant party's new "super minority." The highlight of the week, though, was surely The State of the Union, featuring a big "fuck you" tossed to Sammy "Davis, 'cause I see only one side of evil" Alito and the Supremes. Of course there were plenty of "fuck you"s to go around in the speech, as John Stewart pointed out. Obama tossed them out like candy at a parade, and popped more than a few into his own mouth to boot. It might have been the best one I've heard in my 30 some years of paying attention to this annual applause-athon, if not exactly the most inspirational.

The politico week-that-was came to a close with an "Obama versus the mighty Elephantiasis of Congress" steel cage match debate. Sort of like the final fight scene in Kill Bill, Vol 1, with the Prez channeling Black Mamba and the Repubs standing in for the Crazy 88. From all accounts, it ended in similar fashion (perhaps not so convincingly and, alas, with a bit less finality). BTW, no racial inference should be made of the Black Mamba reference (replace it with Beatrix Kiddo or The Bride, if you'd like). The Prez is, after all, "post racial." Chris Matthews, that speed-freak, rat-a-tat-tat, speak-before-I-think, stream-of-consciousness MSNBC mouthpiece originally coined "post-racial" as it applies to Obama. Chris is great. We have similar political sensibilities but the guy is certifiable, a living/breathing cartoon. Analyzing the State of the Union, he exclaimed "I forgot the president was black for an hour." As John Stewart so aptly put it, "Chris Matthews is one scotch away from becoming Ron Burgundy."

We're not, by the way, in a "post racial" era. Many on the right - even some in the "mainstream" right - are clearly still bummed out that a black man was elected President. These folks throw out terms like "arrogant" and "narrow-minded" to describe Obama in a manner so blatantly consumed in a subtext of racism that they might as well have been calling him an "uppity boy" who surely still doesn't know his place. He's not arrogant, he's President. And I think - I hope - he's starting to get comfortable in knowing his place: the leader of the free world. In my opinion, the failures of Obama over his first year in office have largely occurred because he wasn't quite at ease with this (or at least didn't appear so, which is just as bad). The State of the Union speech sort of showed - at least to me - that this might be changing. Good. But that's the very thing sticking in their craw. The thing that the "arrogant" and "flippant" code words betray.

Okay, time to get off my high horse.

Not bad for an "off-season" week in politics; however, like everything else, better captured elsewhere. The Daily Show perhaps best of all, where Stewart has become just a bit less biased these days and is aiming his razor wit at both wings of the American political clown college that is our government political leadership.

So, is there anything left? Boy, I've written a lot of dreck here in order to say I've got nothing to say. Which is par for the course: I've got terminal diarrhea of the keyboard (to counter balance those parts of me that are somewhat less regular in their movement).

On that note, I'll sign off with my sincerest apologies to anyone who's made it this far ...

Squirreling around the House with Amish of the Sciurus Sect

2010-01-26T19:08:00.003-05:00

The squirrels living above my headboard on the other side of the glass were restless last night, their home blown asunder by Mother Nature's strong winds. They'd worked their furry tails to the bone last year building a leaf-based shelter on the ledge off my bedroom, using the air conditioner I'd never bothered to remove from the window as a lean-to. A newlywed couple made their home there and have since brought two kids into the fold: your classic all-American nuclear family.

At first, these fuzzy beasts annoyed me but all my attempts at trashing their little home went for naught as they calmly rebuilt the thing each time in a matter of hours. I thought of calling pest control but in the end didn't have the heart. Or was it that I'm just an incurable procrastinator? Either way, I've grown used to sharing my nights with this crew (they live literally less than two feet from where I lay my head on the pillow each evening). Generally, they're pretty quiet. When the "kids" arrived into the world and the noise picked up, I'd just tap on the window and they'd usually pipe down pretty quickly. So we'd reached an agreement of sorts and they stayed put. Through rain, sleet and snow, resolute and steadfast. Until last night.

Last night the wind gusts reached epic proportions, blowing the squirrel home's load-bearing leaves to kingdom come. Now, as I mentioned, I'd done similar damage to their hovel back when they first moved in, but that was in the early autumn when replacement leaves were plentiful. It's the barren dead of winter now and the Squirrel Home Depots are closed for the season. What's a Tamiasciurus to do?

Ahh, they're tenacious fuckers - they'll make do. They've got a whole community of scurrying, scampering fellow travelers. They're a bit like the Amish in that regard and I wouldn't be surprised to see a squirrel "barn-raising" taking shape to replenish the requisite leaves in due time.

In fact, in the time it's taken me to write up this post (admittedly, a word every now and then over the course of more than 12 hours), I see that the home is already half repaired, with five or six neighboring squirrels helping to scavenge leaves from various adjoining yards. I'm surprised the female squirrels aren't there with lemonade and refreshments, because it's otherwise eerily like the Witness barn-raising scene. Only furrier.

"You be careful out among them English."

Medical Musings

2010-01-24T18:25:00.001-05:00

Deep Vein Thrombosis. It doesn't sound pleasant, though it would make a great name for a rock and roll band. In this case, I refer to it as one of a litany of side effects possible when taking Yaz, the Happy Fun Ball of prescription birth control medication and inspiration for the Saturday Night Live's Annuale (back when SNL was at least occasionally funny).

Annuale

Saturday Night Live | MySpace Video

Why would I be concerned with this, you ask? I'm not, really. It's just that I've been inundated with Yaz class action come-ons by various ambulance chasers advertising on Discovery Health the past few months. Like a bad commercial jingle, I can't get it out of my head. Judging by the deluge of similar pitches on this network, Oprah's killing of Discovery Health in 2011 will mark a dark day in law offices across these United States (at least for those attorneys who keep their actions classy). I've never seen so many shysters hawking so many lawsuits against so many different entities in the healthcare industry than on this network. Of course, they're playing to a picture perfect target demographic: hypochondriacs of all stripes.

But all this and no mention of the drug with my favorite lopsided benefit/side-effect ratio: Glaxo-Smith Kline's Requip (Ropinirole)?

Requip is a prescription medication used to treat Restless Leg Syndrome and whose known side effects include Compulsive Gambling and Sex Addiction. Now to be fair, Requip is just one of a number of dopamine antagonists that research has shown can trigger these "adverse reactions" in a small percentage of users. Of course, these side effects are printed on the label and rattled off along with their more conventional cousins in the ads, so full disclosure gets them off the hook for current litigation (though I imagine they got nailed hard early on).

To be sure, Restless Leg Syndrome is a very real and potentially painful ailment, despite the goofy name. I have family and friends that suffer from its debilitating effects to varying degrees and it ain't pleasant. But still, it does have that goofy name, making it sound so innocuous. And sex addiction? Gambling?? These sound more like a couple of the more common side effects of the drug Ethanol (I can attest to the veracity of this connection having conducted several research excursions to Vegas and Atlantic City under its influence).

Perhaps Tiger Woods' extra marital relations - supposedly the sad ramification of a sex addiction - can in fact be attributed to Requip. After all, his legs seemed at peace of late on the golf course but perhaps that wasn't the case early on (back when he wasn't screwing anything that moved). Check out video of his play back in the late 1990s, it's like he's got ants in his pants. Did he really have knee surgery in 2008 or was it something else?

As for gambling? Well, a percentage of those that have lost their job, house and car to gambling debts can possibly take comfort in the fact that when Louie the Loan Shark's musclemen come to collect, they'll be breaking very well rested legs indeed.

Me? I'll make it a point to avoid Yaz, even if my doctor insists. I've always had a suspicion that he'd be a true believer in cinema classics like Junior and Rabbit Test, so I'll keep a watchful eye. Rabbit Test - man, I haven't thought about that masterpiece in years. Joan Rivers had only one turn in the director's chair and this was her "baby." Clearly, judging by this work, she could have been the female Scorsese had she kept at it ... or perhaps a latter-day Ed Wood (apologies to Mr. Wood for that last crack). Somehow, Billy Crystal survived. I can say that I saw this in the theater during its initial run in 1978 and recall enjoying it. Though I was only 15 and likely close to legally insane, I was not otherwise impaired so I can't blame it on drugs. I can say that I caught a bit of Rabbit Test recently (as much as I could take) and have had a change of heart.

And as for my Restless Leg Syndrome, I'll stick with the black tar heroin. That seems to do the trick just fine.

A Phoenix rising from the Ashes (on two vastly different fronts)

2010-01-22T23:04:00.005-05:00

There was news today that my favorite Hollywood head case, Joaquin Phoenix, had resurfaced in a public service video with Miley Cyrus and Liv Tyler. It's for a good cause (suicide prevention) but nonetheless is meandering and strange, two things Joaquin is pretty adept at.

Joaquin's infamous (non) interview with David Letterman early last year was perhaps my single favorite television moment of 2009. Then he stumbled off the stage into self-proclaimed thespian requirement so he could concentrate on his fledgling rap music career, but it's nearly a year later and we've not yet seen the fruits of his hip-hop labor. And now he's back, sort of. Sadly, it looks like he's since gotten a haircut and a shave, looking much less Unibomberesqe, but acting as dingy as ever.

As a fellow head case, I have to tip my psychosis to him, for his madness seems a lot more interesting than mine. I'd expect no less from a member of the Phoenix family. For those who missed his scintillating chat with Dave, here it is (it's worth watching again, even if you caught it the first time 'round).

On a more serious note, watching the Hope for Haiti telethon tonight affected me strongly. I'm usually a pretty cynical guy, but I drained the vitriol out of the gas tank at least for the evening. I'm not suggesting I'm so naive that I believe the celebs answering the phones and singing the songs are all coming together purely out of the goodness of their hearts (though I imagine many of them are on the face of it). Did they all suddenly have some sort of moral epiphany and decide to sell off their expensive rides, ditch their Hollywood Hills mansions and latest movie shoots or concert tours, heading instead to Haiti for the long haul to supplement relief workers? I hope not - they'll raise a lot more money and do a lot more good as untouchable figureheads who deign to look down out of their ivory towers every now and then, pushing the celeb-obsessed into ponying up some hard earned duckets because "Brad and Julia said so."

And it doesn't matter if it's from the heart or peer pressure or simply the desire to polish up a tarnished public image.

The situation is too dire and the need too great to give a shit about motives, and what we do in the next days, and months and years for the people of this little island will reverberate through the region (and world) for a long while. What happens to the Haitian people will likely have little direct influence on the goings on in our country but it could have a lasting effect on our national soul ... for good or ill.

It will happen this way ...

2010-01-21T23:26:00.002-05:00

I had completely forgotten about one of my favorite movies until it popped up on cable this morning: Three Days of the Condor. My favorite scene - one of my favorite scenes in cinema - is the second-to-last. The subtext is palpable as Max von Sydow's dispassionate professional killer Jourbert schools Redford's idealistic CIA researcher bookworm Joe Turner on some hard lessons in betrayal and trust.

Condor is in the great tradition of the best of the conspiracy thrillers that found their voice in the cold war of the late 50s/early 60s (Manchurian Candidate!), caught steam in the mid/late 60s with the Kennedy assassination and Vietnam (Seven Days in May! Dr. Strangelove!), and perhaps found their zenith in the 1970s Watergate era. Of the 70's ilk, I'm talkin' The Conversation, Executive Action, The Parallax View, All the President's Men and so on. Strangelove may be my favorite movie of all time, but it is a (very dark) comedy (mostly). Condor is certainly my all-time conspiracy thriller runner up and gets top billing in the playing-it-straight category (which is where virtually all of them live).

It has some great one-liners:

"You think not getting caught in a lie is the same thing as telling the truth?"
"I don't interest myself in 'why'. I think more often in terms of 'when', sometimes 'where'; always 'how much'."
"Not now - then! Ask 'em when they're running out. Ask 'em when there's no heat in their homes and they're cold. Ask 'em when their engines stop. Ask 'em when people who have never known hunger start going hungry. You wanna know something? They won't want us to ask 'em. They'll just want us to get it for 'em!"
"Well, the fact is, what I do is not a bad occupation. Someone is always willing to pay ... it's quite restful. It's almost peaceful. No need to believe in either side, or any side. There is no cause. There's only yourself. The belief is in your own precision."
"Listen. I work for the CIA. I am not a spy. I just read books!"

And of course:

"You have not much future there. It will happen this way. You may be walking. Maybe the first sunny day of the spring. And a car will slow beside you, and a door will open, and someone you know, maybe even trust, will get out of the car. And he will smile, a becoming smile. But he will leave open the door of the car and offer to give you a lift. [offering him his gun] ... For that day."

The Gang that couldn't Shoot Govern Straight

2010-01-19T19:22:00.007-05:00

John Stewart let loose with a great analogy last night on the Daily Show in regard to the ineptitude of the Dems getting any legislation passed: "It's not that the Republicans are playing chess while the Democrats are playing checkers, it's that the Republicans are playing chess while the Democrats are in the nurse's office because they glued their balls to their thigh again."

It'll be interesting to see how much more glue the Massachusetts voters ends up wagging in the Dem's drooling face with today's special election, daring them to apply it to their gonads and then laughing all the way to a filibuster as the dingy donkeys rub the sticky stuff all over their junk yet again. Like Lucy with Charlie Brown and the football.

Notice I say "they" when referring to the donkey party since although it might surprise some readers of this blog, I don't consider myself among their ranks. Clearly, I'm politically and philosophically aligned with the Dems far more often than I am with the Republicans; in fact, the party of Jefferson is often too conservative for my taste on a broad number of issues. You might even label me a socialist of a sort (though certainly one with strong capitalist tendencies). But I can't stand the exclusivity of the two-party system and hate the idea that something as complex as a political philosophy can be consistently shoehorned into right/left, black/white, up/down, etc.

I am aligned in theory with the Republicans on one thing: smaller is usually better when it comes to government.

A small government socialist? Isn't that an oxymoron? Actually, not so much as you'd think. Like most philosophies, socialism has a multitude of sometimes conflicting variations, most of which can be broadly lumped into two categories: one authoritarian (expansive government) - by far the most popular - and the other libertarian. I fall firmly into the latter camp (my Facebook Political Compass result to the right testifies to this). I don't go to the orthodox extreme of "no government" (that's not very practical or even necessarily desirable) but rather am generally aligned with the tenant that big government and big corporations alike are inherently troublesome, not necessarily intentionally but simply in their natural inclination to get comfortable with ever increasing power.

So, like some Republicans, I'd prefer that government not grow. Now, where I part company with them is in what portions of the government I'd like to see shrink significantly and what portions might still benefit with some expansion. The elephants tend to want massive increases on "defense" and equally large reductions in social services whereas I want exactly the inverse. An inflated defense budget simply emboldens and stockpiles power in the corporations already greedily suckling at the teet of the DOD cash cow rather than actually assisting the military with their necessary missions (I worked in that world for over 17 years so I know from where I speak).

Alarming numbers today are screaming "socialism" and "communism" at McCarthyesque volume in Pavlovian response to talk of a public option for health care. But health care, like education and national defense, are basic things all citizens should be afforded. And health care (like education) is far more innocuous than military power. People should fear the latter running amok more so than they should the former. Why aren't the anti-socialism crowd crying out for private corporate armies? Nobody is worried about the "public" military, it seems. Shouldn't firms like Blackwater just take over the whole thing? Wouldn't they, as a for-profit enterprise, be more efficient than the "public" army, to use the right-wing anti-health care reformer argument? No? I didn't think so ...

But to get back to the point of this post, you have to give it to the Republicans when it comes to execution; they seem to have it all over the Democrats in that arena. Of course, the things they tend to get done are usually those I abhor, but still. Too bad the Dems can't hire the Republicans to get their agenda past ... well, past the Republicans.

Ahh, why bother? The Dems would still get in their own way somehow and fuck it up. It's amazing to me that some of them even manage to get dressed in the morning without polling focus groups, hemming and hawing over color and style and stuffing the pockets of the clothing they've finally chosen so that it satisfies no one. It's a wonder they don't walk out of their homes dressed like rainbow colored, bloated circus clowns. As the old saying goes, "they couldn't sell ice in hell." By the time they showed it to potential buyers, chances are they'd have compromised the refreshing cubes of frozen water into flaming cauldrons of gasoline.

Sadly, this donkey infused legislative ineptitude - or, to be more precise, the perception of ineptitude - seems to extend to the executive branch as well, though there have been exceptions (Bill Clinton being the most recent). Sadly, the Obama administration is looking less Clintonesque and more Carter-like in its (in)ability to get things done (or at least with the appearance that they're getting nothing accomplished, which is in the end almost as bad). That's not exactly fair, though (at least not yet): Obama was given a downright impossible task in the worst mess handed to an incoming chief executive since Franklin Delano (and Roosevelt didn't have wars on two fronts when he took the helm). Through all that, he's still done more in his first year than W did in his first eight (at least more of the things that I wanted to see done; Georgie did a whole truckload of abhorrent stuff). I hope Obama's learned some lessons over the past year and applies them going forward (lesson #1: no more Mr. Nice Guy, please, please).

I don't know what's worse: getting the wrong thing done or nothing done at all. Meanwhile, I'll keep my fingers - and expectations - crossed.

Of Glen "Taco" Bell and Haiti's Heaven and Hell

2010-01-18T22:41:00.003-05:00

My first Gastrointestinal Physician died over the weekend. The importance of his revolutionary research into the stool softening properties inherent when combining certain very cheap oils, spices, cheeses and ground meat cannot be over stated. Certainly not to those of us who had until that point suffered in silence. Remember, this was in the dark days before the advent of Activia. If there's any justice, they'll honor his wishes and bury him in an actual coffin-size Tortilla shell. Drop the Chalupa, my friend, for you're now in a better place (up in heaven, walking Gidget the Taco Bell Chihuahua and picking up her droppings in the clouds) ...

And speaking of diarrhea, thank God for the good folks at the Royal Caribbean Cruise Lines. Sure, they're still docking ships near the heavily guarded Labadee resort of Haiti - less than 100 miles from the epicenter of the devastating earthquake - so that the passengers can come ashore, hang out at the swanky private resort, enjoy barbecues and snorkeling, and so forth ...

... and some might say that's a bit insensitive ...

... but not so, they say!

They're donating any extra Sun Loungers for use by the relief effort! You know, in case the wounded want to soak up some sun during the days-long "down time" waiting for medical attention.

And I'm sure they have promised to instruct the guards surrounding the resort to avoid unnecessarily killing any of the pleading mobs pounding on the gates outside, crying out for a scrap of food or a sip of water or perhaps some antibiotics. Here, have a Sun Lounger instead! Let them eat cake! If they can find some!

Now seriously, it's easy to get all holier-than-thou about business-as-usual anywhere on Haiti, with such unimaginable suffering taking place just down the road; however, as distasteful as it seems, it's only slightly more reprehensible than it was a month ago or a year ago. When the rest of Haiti was quietly living in squalor and oppression pre-earthquake. And perhaps there is some validity to Royal Caribbean's claims that they are providing logistics services to the relief efforts while in-port and that to go elsewhere and deny locals employed in such resorts a way to earn some money only adds to the suffering.

Would re-directing the Royal Caribbean cruise ships to Barbados make anything better? Perhaps it would ease the consciences of the passengers but fuck their consciences. I know a way to ease them, cruisers: end your vacation early and pressure Royal Caribbean to pony up a partial refund so that you can donate it to the relief efforts. But it's every fuckhead's right to stick his or her head in the proverbial sand (just remember to apply sun block to the exposed parts).

All that said, doesn't make it any less reprehensible; however, self righteous indignation isn't all that helpful in lessening the horror that continues into its second week around Port-au-Prince.

My 2 cents.

And on that hilarious note, I'll bid adieu.

X marks the Spot (on the floor I can now see)

2010-01-17T15:55:00.004-05:00

A lazy, rainy Sunday finds me cleaning out my "office" (i.e., the place where I throw all the shit that doesn't fit in the other rooms). Mainly it's a graveyard for computers in my life that have since gone to that big bit bucket in the sky. And cables. Lots and lots of cables. CATV, Ethernet, RGB Component, HDMI, extension cords, telephone line, and several whose purpose I can't readily discern. But amidst this twisted rat's nest of wiring, I came up with gold: an audio cable long enough to reach from my laptop on the coffee table to the stereo.

I can finally play my iTunes collection directly off my computer through my stereo!

You'd think I'd have found - or just bought - one of these cables many, many years ago. But no, I'm a notorious procrastinator and have been making do simply plugging my iPod into the three foot audio cable previously protruding from the stereo audio-in. How primitive! I can only fit a small fraction of my collection on those devices and can't control them from the comfort of my recliner when they're tethered to that shorty wire across the room. It took me quitting my job - and thus not having any work to do over the weekend - to get me to dig up what I should have had all along. Perhaps one day I'll even hook my computer up to the television!

Good ol' Steve, living out on the bleeding edge of technology circa 2002 ...

And now with my music all stereoawesomeified - that should be a word - I'm jamming to lots of the brilliant late 70's/early 80's LA punk band X. Calling them punk really doesn't do them justice because they're about much more musically than the three super-fast cords, attitude and two minute songs defining the bulk of the genre. I don't say that to disparage others of the punk persuasion: three chords, two minutes, speed and an attitude is what great rock and roll is all about and why punk is my favorite flavor. And X had all that in spades; however, like the best of anything, they layered more on top. John Doe, Exene Cervenka, Billy Zoom and DJ Bonebrake had range and style and a thirst for experimentation, all within the confines of the punk rock spirit. Most of all, they were smart.

In fact, I'm enjoying the music so much I just realized I've stopped cleaning up the "office", but that's okay because I've moved onto another important task: importing into iTunes the CDs my friend John gave me upon his departure with the family to the Rocky Mountain wilderness of Adolph Coors and Mork & Mindy (thanks again, John).

Well, I've got to get back to cleaning again. If you've read this far, you're a masochist for sure and should get that checked out.

[Postscript: spending a surreal evening flipping back and forth between the daily news cycle focused on Haiti and the Golden Globes. One juxtaposed on the other makes for a really bad acid trip.]

Sun Drenched Island of Horrors

2010-01-16T23:46:00.048-05:00

It's a tropical paradise on the edges, with a poverty-stricken core. Sadly, this arrangement seems to typify so many of the islands in the Caribbean. With Haiti, though, those glorious edges are especially razor thin and the broken down core practically swallows the nation whole. Corruption and abuse of power runs rampant as is often the case when wealth and educational opportunities for the people are scarce, and that makes the chaos arising in the aftermath of a crisis such as the one they're in now especially dangerous. Finally, the island's infrastructure - especially in the most financially bereft neighborhoods - is simply not built to withstand a major earthquake and certainly not to enable any subsequent relief efforts, even if most of it hadn't been reduced to rubble.

The Haitian people have in the past held fast to their proud heritage through times of pain, as though they understood that this too shall pass. After all, they've fought through a long history of tragedy and oppression. In many ways this history is intertwined with the rich tapestry of the vibrant culture that often serves to document their perseverance. But this time the hammer might have come down too suddenly and the damage inflicted could be too great. And that in the end is what makes it so heart wrenching.

I've spent the last half hour watching news footage of the dead and dying in Haiti, and in particular of an 11 year old girl who had been half trapped under rubble for two days with her friends and relatives powerless to free her (they contemplated sawing off her one crushed leg, but they had no blood supply to stem the hemmorging sure to follow so that option was abandoned). They did finally break her free, partly by removing the dead bodies of other family members caught in the same concrete trap. She died, though, during the subsequent four hour drive to the nearest hospital (likely she would have waited hours or days more in line to retrieve medical attention, so the odds were always long against her survival). What really slammed me was the close-up of her face, trapped and crying, little black rimmed glasses on and looking like nothing so much as the scared, hurt kid she was; a once happy-go-lucky child caught in a horrifying situation.

When I hear and see these stories, my snotty whining over trivial matters seems so conceited. Which it is in any case, but it's magnified now in the wake of these horrors. Of course, nightmares like these unfortunately go on the world over every day. Scenes like this take place in our inner cities regularly. But it's the sheer concentrated scale of the Haiti situation that is overwhelming to me, even far removed physically and emotionally from the carnage, safe and warm on my living room couch. I don't know anyone in Haiti nor am I close with anyone of Haitian ancestry. And still it's just overwhelming to me. You'd have to be dead inside or Rush Limbaugh for it not to get to you at least a little. I can't imagine the intensity of the emotions on the ground there. Television images don't nearly do it justice, I imagine. Thank God for that.

I've donated several times to the Red Cross and other like agencies this week, but I don't think this is something that money (or anything) can solve in the right now. The infrastructure just isn't there and by the time the foundation is properly laid to help the many, a great percentage will be long dead. It's hard to say, but I just hope the relief workers can get it into place in time to recover the bodies before decease rising from the deceased gives rise to a secondary catastrophe and an unthinkable chain reaction. Until then, let's be grateful for the many little miracles they perform along the way.

All Play and No Work makes for a Confused Boy

2010-01-16T17:44:00.008-05:00

Saturday. January 16th, 2010. High noon. I left the safety of full-time employment yesterday to dip my toes back into the world of consulting, this time as an independent. I've had a lot of folks asking if I'd been laid off but in fact it was quite the contrary: my now-former employer is looking for and hiring technology folks with my skill set pretty extensively these days and were thoroughly disappointed to see me leave. The follow-up questions are the same once folks hear I left of my own accord without a guaranteed job and with the national unemployment rate still hovering around 10%:

So why'd ya do it? Life's too short. Enough said.
In this economy? I'm lucky in that the market's pretty active for my particular niche and I have several interesting consulting engagement possibilities on the horizon as well as a couple short-term gigs in the bag.
Are you insane? Yes, on multiple levels.
What you did is like jumping out of a perfectly good airplane and then searching the sky for a parachute on the way down. That's not really a question and the analogy isn't completely apt. From my perspective, this particular aircraft has major structural defects and several of my fellow passengers look disturbingly dangerous (in fact, so does most of the crew). That said, I do have a standing offer to climb back into this particular plane if I so choose. Besides, the sky seems filled with functioning chutes I can reach out and touch.

So I'll be okay. And I feel a giddy sense of freedom. But I also feel a bit empty today. I tend to be a workaholic and am going through withdrawal as I take the rest of the month off. I need a fix or something that'll take my mind off this "no work and all play" thing staring me in the face. Books, movies, exercise, withdrawing all my savings and going to Atlantic City, coming up with a sure-fire get-rich business plan, writing a novel, fixing up the house to sell. All are possibilities I've contemplated. My A.D.D keeps getting in the way of going further.

Perhaps baby steps are in order. Finish reading the six books I've started over the past several months. Watch at least a few of the flicks that sit untouched on the DVR or in unwrapped DVD/Blu-Ray cases next to the tube. Writing? How 'bout I write a whole short story instead of the fragments/"moments" I've churned out to date before tackling my War and Peace tome? Just a thought. Fix up the house? I did call a roofer, who'll be here Monday for an estimate. That's a start. And I did go for a run just a bit ago to (try and) make up for the Girl Scout cookies I bought - and ate - this morning. The kid at the door was adorable and I was hungry. Now my feet hurt from the run and the downside of the earlier sugar rush is catching up with me. But one run does not my "regular exercise" New Year's Resolution make. So why not devise a daily regiment?

Things to ponder. Meanwhile, I've been catching up with some music.

Elvis Costello at Hollywood High came out on CD/MP3 this week and I'm loving it. Recorded in 1978, it catches Costello and the Attractions at the height of their craft. They were a great live band and this is grand evidence of that fact. I also picked up Graham Parker and the Rumour live in San Francisco 1979 which was likewise recently released (last month). Parker and company are equally wonderful. Perhaps I'm showing my age just a bit, but the best of first generation punk and new wave circa 1976 - 1979 is likely my favorite era in music, certainly the best of the eras I experienced first hand as a music consumer (the heart of the "60's era" roughly book-ended around 1964 - 1968 is my other fav period but I was just a toddler then and only later enjoyed the tuneage in reruns).

Well, this post has been meandering, unfunny, and thoroughly boring. Not altogether to be unexpected given my track record, but it's sub-par even when compared to that. Better luck next time, dear reader.

And so I'm off for the evening, fighting a cold - a parting gift from my employer - while flipping between play-off football and Closer, one of my fav flicks of the 00's (I discovered it today sitting there in my DVR fresh from a recording off IFC earlier in the week). Ahh, Leon's sweet young Mathilda all grown up. Natalie's just a notch down from my all-time pantheon of Hollywood crushes but climbs higher every year. She took a big leap up with the one-two punch of Closer and Garden State stuck in the middle of the "Noughties" decade.

And so it is
Just like you said it should be
We'll both forget the breeze
Most of the time
And so it is
The colder water
The blower's daughter
The pupil in denial
I can't take my eyes off of you ... I can't take my mind off of you ...

A Batshit Loon, a Vile Buffoon, and a Multitude of Much Better People

2010-01-14T22:55:00.004-05:00

Reverend Pat Robertson and his gasbag sidekick Rush Limbaugh are the sociopath's Abbott and Costello. Or perhaps Huntley and Brinkley for the Sieg Heil aficionados.

Whenever I'm sure that I couldn't possibly think less of these these two wackos, they manage to blurt out something that lowers the bar. Case in point: their responses to the devastation visited upon Haiti, Robertson citing yet more comeuppance for the Haitian "pact with the devil" and Limbaugh lambasting Obama for commenting on thousands dead and dying in Port-au-Prince faster than he did on the underwear bomb terrorist's failed attack.

I won't even dignify Robertson's comments with a response: he's clearly a Looney 'Toon who happens to have his own television network (no, it's not the Cartoon Network - it's not nearly so entertaining or real). With the demeanor of a kindly grandfather channeling Hannibal Lecter. Unfortunately, Mr. Robertson's neighborhood is a more sizable community than you might think. Sad commentary on our evolution as a species. But certainly not the only or even nearly the saddest, which is itself profoundly sad. We're got a ways to go. But we're getting there.

A long way to go, indeed ... and thus Rush. Rush ... ahh, pill-poppin', jack assin' Rush. Well, well, well. He has an even bigger bully pulpit and a much larger following than Reverend Pat. Sad becomes suicidal. Christ, makes one wanna reach for the Oxycodone. Unlike Pat, he claims no special kinship with the almighty; rather, he believes he is the almighty. Maybe he's right, but if he is then sign me up for that Haitian unholy pact of yore Robertson was babbling about and fit me for my pitchfork cause clearly down is up.

Limbaugh suggests - fuck, he outright says - Obama is showing favoritism to "dark-skinned foreigners" to "placate his black constituency" rather than show "proper concern for Americans."

Now to be sure, the failed terrorist attack was disturbing on a couple of fronts, exposing the airport security holes we all strongly suspected but didn't want to admit were there, allowing a wingnut with explosive jockey shorts into the sky on a passenger aircraft that was a hair's breath and an alert passenger's action away from being blown to kingdom come, perhaps causing massive damage on the ground in Detroit to boot.

However, all that said, the attack did not succeed, no one was hurt and - much more important - time in the aftermath was not of the essence as it is with the Haiti situation, where tens of thousands more could die if a massive and well coordinated relief effort does not happen RIGHT NOW. A no-brainer.

Visit the Red Cross or your favorite relief fund and donate what you can - I've done it and will do it again. It helps wash the bad taste out of my psyche after catching these dynamic dodos in action. And watch some real patriots - patriotic toward humanity - diving into the shit storm that is Haiti in the earthquake's aftermath, helping to reunite families torn apart, provide water/food/shelter to the suddenly-homeless survivors, and find/treat the wounded or at least help bring some answers and closure to their loved ones. And of course get into place at least the minimum of infrastructure necessary to do all this in time for it to matter.

Gimme Shelter takes on a whole new meaning.

But I'm feeling a lot better about the human capacity for good: the heart of just one relief worker drowns out the screeching of a barrel full of Batshit Loons and Vile Buffoons.

Burying the Lead while Dating the Metal (and doin' da Foxtrot with Ma "Half-baked Alaska" Kettle)

2010-01-11T23:26:00.003-05:00

Burying the Lead

My buddies at the oh-so-unbiased Wall Street Journal are doing their level best to fan the flames of outrage over the admittedly far - FAR - from perfect health care reform bill. Well, well, well. Big surprise. Typical left wing propaganda from the Murdoch-owned paper (we all know Rupert is a commie pinko given the well known liberal leanings of his Fox News).

The latest headline from the Journal screams: Married Couples will Pay More for Health Insurance Under New Bill! Way down in the gooey center of the article hiding in the shadows of that screed lurks a toss-off noting that "more" only applies to the new insurance exchanges and does not affect those who are currently insured.

Venture deeper down into the dark and damp ink stains of this piece and you'll trip over still more "minor details" explaining that a couple would pay more only if their combined income serves to push them over the poverty line. Well, that's not fair but alas tends to be the way things often work (in government and private sector alike). The article doesn't - but should - add that those exchanges are not even an option for these same couples currently. Today, married or single, these fine folks would be paying quite a bit more for private insurance - more even than the "more" WSJ is up in arms about - or live with none at all. But why let the truth get in the way of a good headline?

In my opinion the health care bill in the form that most probably will be signed into law will contain some good but a shitload of bad along for the ride. Almost all the badness can be divided into two steaming piles:

The compromises to the right made to appease the fear mongers and gain at least limited Republican support (of which none was provided in the end).
State-specific pork that often has little or nothing to do with health care reform but was nonetheless stuffed into the bill in typical beltway fashion. It's the manifestation of the tax-and-spend stereotype aimed (often rightly) at liberal members of Congress but which is in fact practiced by both sides in an institutionalized manner that - God please - shouldn't outta be there but will very likely never go away.

Are the small diamonds in the dogshit of the health care legislation enough to justify the thing? I think so. But only with some big bright red warning stickers spelling out the must-haves:

Strong enough provisions to ensure private insurance companies don't jack their rates up out of fear they'll lose customers
Strong enough provisions to ensure people who can afford private insurance pay for it rather than latching onto the government dole. Or rather I should say the government supplemented dole, since the public option was removed out of misguided fear over impending socialism, death panel hokey and whatnot - this will be the death rattle of the bill probably.

Ahh, let's just face the facts that we don't have the national fortitude to do this thing. Fuck the poor. If they want medical attention, they can get off their asses and make some money. Clearly they don't want/need such luxuries. Need a pediatrician, kid? Then start stitching me up some Nikes! It's a win-win solution: we won't have to pass off our hard earned sneaker money to some third world sweatshop once we reinstate these fine institutions back into the economy of the good ol' U.S. of A. and the poor kids will be able pay for their whole family's health care! "Problem solved from your end," to paraphrase Office Space.

Dating the Metal

And now for something completely different (but with some oddly indirect parallels)...

Seems the geeks in the lab have knocked out a bang-up next generation companion for those who cannot - or prefer not to - connect with a real-life sweetheart. This isn't your father's blow-up doll, gang: it's fully electronic and comes with customizable personality in addition to the usual "bells and whistles" (and whips and chains, if you like). Mmmmm. For those saavy investors, this might well be the next big thing: the electronic pimp industry. Get in on the ground floor. Never under estimate the number of lonely and social awkward people there are out there or the fact that these qualities are often proportional to the disposable income these folks have at the ready, just looking for a Roxxxy the Sexbot (or Wild Wendy, Mature Martha, Frigid Farrah and S&M Susan - get 'em while supplies last).

Sista Sarah goes Foxtrotting

No big shocker this. Our Dull Eyed Lady of the Ice Land (apologies to Sara Dylan) signs on with Fox News as their sort of roving (rogueing?) commentator and the defacto Poet Laureate for the network. Though sadly no sign her interpreter Bill Shatner will be enlisted by Fox to jazzercise her sonnets like he's done so successfully in the past, putting a beat to her tweets. Pity. Perhaps he'll freelance as he's been known to do. I look forward to the work. From both of them. And now Tina will have plenty of television footage in the years to come when she will no doubt dust off the glasses 'n goofy smile and sashay forth back onto the SNL stage for the cameos we so loved last fall.

Enough Already

I swore I'd clam up until Friday and so now I will (unless I can't and then I won't). I figure this post has enough vitriol, bombast, smarmy sarcasm and commie-pinko socialist broadsides to piss just about everyone off in one way or another. If so, well then my work here is done.

Greed Heads and Tales

2010-01-10T19:03:00.012-05:00

I finally caught Neill Blomkamp's District 9 Saturday morning. Brilliant film on so many different levels. Messy and wildly uneven, utterly original. Not necessarily very singular in the story itself, which at its core is as old as the corruption, oppression and racism that fuels it. No, this originality springs from its style and form, its base simplicity. The melding of science fiction into a grim story of slums, poverty, indifference, greed, abandonment, exile, comeuppance, redemption. No storybook ending and with very few truly sympathetic characters. It's not pretty - it made me almost physically ill at one point - but it is in the end beautiful.

I followed it up with a recording my DVR slurped up off IFC: The Source. It's a 1999 documentary on the Beats, covering the scene and people from the 1944 introduction of Ginsberg to Ke rouac through 1997 when Ginsberg and Burroughs drifted off this mortal coil. Real interesting mix of historical footage, interviews, and contemporary celeb fans Johnny Depp, Dennis Hopper and John Turturro providing dramatic interpretations of the words of Beat pioneers. I identify with the Beats more than any other "movement" and have always been fascinated with those who forged the philosophical, cultural and creative ideals behind the name. The movement encompassed a mishmash of individualists, none of whom played bongos or sported a goatee or uttered "daddy-o" except in ironic disdain. Great stuff.

Great stuff to come in this vein too! A movie focused on the 1957 obscenity trial resulting from the publication of Ginsberg's poem Howl the year before makes its theatrical debut on the 21st of this month - fittingly entitled Howl - and guess who has a prominent role in the flick? None other than my gal Mary-Louise Parker! I'll be on a break from work and will be lining up to see it for sure (my favorite actress and my favorite poem together in one place - could be a disaster but I'd never know).

Anyway, clearly I believe that digression - not discretion - is the better part of valor. What was my original point ... ?

... oh, yeah - lots of philosophical and political similarities between District 9 and the works of the Beats: fear and suspicion of conformity, oppression, corporate and government power, etc. So I worked up a sizable anti-establishment head of steam fueled by the combined energies of this double feature. When success is measured by power and money, the successful will often become so largely based upon their greed. Not always, certainly. But often. So it comes to pass that the greed-heads rule. Not all of them make it big, of course: there are plenty of poor, weak, loser greed-heads (often they end up being the loudest to compensate for their lack of success). No, it's only the most ambitious and driven of this breed who rise to the top. But rise they do. They can't be stopped, it's the human condition. Bummer.

After that one-two punch I changed gears to watch some playoff football. But with the TV sound down and stereo volume up, blasting my latest iTunes playlist "greedheads" (lots of Clash, Rage, Gang of Four, MC5, Sex Pistols, Black Flag, X ...)

I turned off the football last night after the Jets win, deciding to pass on the Eagles demise and instead catch another flick I missed in theatrical release: The Watchmen. It kept to my anti-establishment theme of the day and was dazzling, dark, and supremely entertaining. Good call on my part.

Sunday's turned into a very lazy day. So lazy in fact that I co-opted what was Saturday's post - this one - and made it Sunday's "gem" so that I'd feel the day wasn't an entire waste on all fronts. Well, why couldn't you have simply whipped up an honest-to-goodness new piece, you say? Did I say it was a lazy day? It was that lazy. And I really don't have anything to say.

I'll be enjoying the Simpson's 20th Anniversary special tonight ("In 3D, on Ice!"), but likely not the new episode of the show it celebrates scheduled just before it. It's my opinion that the first 9 or so years of the Simpsons was the best television ever produced before or since (and I include all categories of show and/or broadcast in that equation). It chronicled (and skewered) contemporary society better than any art I've come across (better than the news and other non-fiction stuff too).

The best comedy show from the beginning to the end of its run was also produced in the 1990s: Seinfeld. If Groening and company had pulled up stakes in 1998, the Simpsons would win that prize in my pantheon as well. It's not just a generational thing, either: I've been an ardent student of television my whole life and have seen them all at length. Every episode of I Love Lucy and Your Show of Shows, through the Honeymooners, Get Smart, Barney Miller, Cheers, and so on. They certainly deserve mention, as does Arrested Development in this millennium. Meanwhile, the last 11 or so years have been increasingly uneven for the Simpsons, but I guess that was bound to happen. It still has more moments as a shadow of its former self than most shows have in their prime. So - happy 20th, Springfield!

Now it's back to the grindstone for one last work week in corporate IT as a full time employee, at least for the foreseeable future. I'll be sure and soak in the political infighting and typically dysfunctional corporate goings on. Now to be sure, I'll see it all again soon in new settings but from the perspective of a consultant, an outsider, a dispassionate observer. And with the knowledge that this too shall pass (in a few days or weeks when that engagement ends and I can move on to the next happy corporate family with their own unique twists on the typical corporate pain points). But before all that, a break for a couple of weeks. Talk to you then.

The Jan 8-Ball Posse

2010-01-08T21:44:00.010-05:00

Elvis Presley, David Bowie and Larry Storch (F Troop's Corporal Agarn) were all born on this day.

Man, those cats could have combined to make a dynamite early 70's movie franchise. Sort of a rockin', druggin', slap stick Odd Couple (the Odd Triplets). Or perhaps a less sane variant on the Three Stooges. Elvis all loaded up with fried banana sandwiches and firearms, the contents of a small pharmacy coursing through his veins; Bowie all androgynified and strung out, his Ziggy mullet flapping in the breeze; and finally Larry picking up the rear in full-out Storch-itude, hanging with Sgt. O'Rourke and the Hekawis busting on Captain Parmenter.

As Cher sang, "If I could turn back time." Indeed. The accompanying music video for her 1989 hit had Sonny's already middle aged gal dolled up in a skin-tight flesh colored outfit dancing on the USS Missouri battleship surrounded by Navy "crew members", the irony of the words seemingly lost to all. Cher attempted to turn back time in Nip/Tuck fashion and there's absolutely nothing wrong with that. In fact, maybe we can turn back time for our Elvis/Bowie/Storch bonanza with some FX magic of our own.

Larry and Bowie are still with us, so maybe we dispense with the full-on CGI and can option this film series idea with the real-deal codgers themselves, targeting it at the Octogenarian demographic (and the many of us who are Octogenarians at heart). With still just a bit of help from Lucasfilm's Industrial Light and Magic crew. The Marx Brothers meets Cheech and Chong meets the cast of Cocoon. The Three Amigos in Depends (hell, Elvis was wearing Depends in his 30s, so in a way it's a tribute to his memory as much as it is to their advancing years). Grumpy Stoned Men.

We just need an Elvis replacement. Lisa Marie? Nah, too young. Elvis Costello? Perhaps Presley was about more than just a quirky first name. We need an aging, pill popping iconic rock star with a ballooning weight problem and delusions of grandeur. And an enabling posse of hangers on. That shouldn't be difficult. Oh, that's right: this rocker also needs to be alive. That might be more challenging. Christ, grab one of his contemporaries - both Jerry Lee Lewis and Little Richard are still breathing, kind of, and seem to meet most of the criterion. But still, they simply aren't The Pelvis. Somehow that combination of rebellious sneering rocker, Mama's boy backwoods hick, and pill-popping paranoid batshit loon is harder to find in a single persona than one might think.

Ahh! It seems R. Kelly was also born on January 8th, so let's go ahead and inject some young blood into this would-be celluloid gang. It's now becoming sort of like a cross generational Mod Squad! Though it needs that certain special Peggy Lipton-style lady to truly make it mod. Amber Benson belongs to this special fraternity of "celebs" born on Jan 8 so why not let her in on the fun? Who the hell is she, you ask? Exactly. And in the spirit of 60/70's crime dramas, I'm thinking we want to make this gang more Ironside-like. As luck would have it, guess who else was born on 01/08? No, not Raymond Burr (he's dead anyway), I'm talking about Professor Stephen Hawking.

We've got the makings of a real rock and roll Ocean's Eleven, bent on drunken acid and slap stick high drama with some commercial grade physics thrown in to satisfy the public's insatiable hunger for the hard sciences! Let's call it The Jan 8-Ball Posse featuring "Howlin' Black Hole" Hawking.

We better hurry, though. Storch is pushing 90, Hawking's been living on borrowed time for 40 some years, and timing is everything. I'll start work on a draft treatment for the inaugural romp down 8-Ball Alley and ring up Hollywood at once to start the funding round. Gotta work on my sales pitch, though: "Man, if the kids loved Twilight I can only imagine how they'll eat this up ..."

Billy Dee - The New Williams on Tiger's Bag

2010-01-07T21:53:00.008-05:00

What could be better than Billy Dee Williams hawking Tiger Woods limited edition commemorative collectible Franklin Mint "mistress" plates?

I missed this "ad" when it first made the rounds on Jimmy Kimmel several weeks ago. As soon as I saw ol' Billy Dee, though, I knew it would be good. Any man who can connect sex with Colt 45 malt liquor and make it work the way he did back in the day is a god in my book. The sly smile and a lovely lady in waiting dressed across his back, she half in the bag soused on that putrid concoction and gripping Billy to keep from collapsing. "It works every time," he'd purr. Billy made Colt the go-to GHB of its time. But, you know ... classier.

When Billy Dee made a galactic Judas sympathetic with Lando Calrissian in Empire Strikes Back - well, that was just icing on the cake. As if to say, "Hey, the sex/Colt 45 thing wasn't just a fluke - I got mad skills, people."

And now he's got Tiger's back, helping him compensate for lost endorsement income through this new revenue stream. Making lemonade out of lemons (or perhaps the better metaphor might be "condominiums out of condoms").

These Billy Lee collectible plates are just the tip of this product line iceberg, I'm sure: t-shirts, jewelry, wall art, press-on tattoos, and so on. Billy knows what he's doing, Tiger; just follow his lead. When he gives you a wink you know it's time to do your part: go hit the swanky nightclubs and seduce a new special "plate" for the collection. Billy Dee snaps the pics, the Franklin Mint fires up its ovens, and the purchasing public is satisfied for another month. Then the dance begins again. Who has time to play golf?

2010 - Free Flowing Pipes and other Resolution Types

2010-01-02T22:15:00.010-05:00

So here we are, it's 2010 and I'm back home in Philly after a red-eye flight from Phoenix. I'm pretty wrecked from lack of sleep, screwed up diet and jet lag.

Which is to say, just about my normal self.

I'm going to kick off my New Year's Resolutions today (no waiting for Chinese New Year for me this time - well, maybe for some of the more challenging resolutions, but not all of them). I've been batting back and forth exactly what these resolutions should be, of course. They're much harder to keep when you're not sure what they are, after all. Or much easier, depending on your perspective.

So ... ?

Exercise. This is an easy one. In short, get more of it. Now, the most straightforward manner in which to tackle this one would be to join a gym. I'm not very straightforward though. First I need to get into good enough shape to confidently expose my body to the public ridicule a gym invites. So I'm first setting up a two month private regiment of calisthenics to get to that point.

Diet. Bluntly, I gotta get regular. I mean Activia * Super Colon Blow * Phillips' Colon Health = Me in 2010. Last year was a world of shit on many levels but alas they were all metaphorical. I'm looking forward to a world of shit in 2010, but only in the literal sense of the term. I just need to keep to the philosophy of my new mentor, Phillips' The Colon Lady: don't ever quit / in your quest to take a shit. I'm paraphrasing, but you get the gist.

Sell my house. Or at least fix it up to the point where it might possibly be sold for more than the spare change in the pockets of prospective buyers. And before it morphs from a sort-of Money Pit to a super massive Big Bucks Black Hole from which no income can escape. My idea of home repair is switching the channel to an episode of This Old House and even that doesn't hold my interest for very long. That's generally as close as I get. I was made for urban condo/townhouse living, it just took me a decade or so to realize it. Fuck it, that's a lie: I knew it almost right away. The sewer backed up and flooded the finished basement of the decapitated "animal house" a group of us had been renting prior to my purchase, making it almost instantly unlivable (that basement housed two of the four bedrooms). The drunken landlord who used to steal our beer and lined the insides of the walls with the empties attempted to shovel the shit out but he was comically incompetent and besides there was no turning back. I had convinced myself that it was time to buy and rushed the process given the sea of human waste in my rear view mirror gaining on me. One year after closing, I was ready to sell. Fast forward another nine years and I'm really ready to sell. Funny how the topics of fucked up pipes and shit keep coming up.

Meet the gal of my dreams, go all romantic comedy crazy, and live happily ever after. This would be tops on the list but I'm fairly unlikely to achieve it and I don't want to place the bar too high only to disappoint. Baby steps. A few push-ups and sit-ups. Regular trips to the can. A job I don't feel sick to my stomach going to each day and a home I don't feel nauseated returning to each evening. Once those are in place, perhaps then I can aspire to greater heights. Besides, I've been rocking the eHarmony thing the past little while, so technically I'm working on the resolution. Thus far, no long term sparks. Perhaps they discovered this blog and then subsequently ran for the hills? :-) I sound like Barney Miller's Fish half the time here, and I imagine that's generally not too attractive. Unless you happen to be a budding Bernice.

And now for something completely different: a non-sequitur I just had to share ...

On E!'s The Soup as part of their Clipdown '09 retrospective they were flashing an excerpt from one of the daytime judge/court shows that hit my funny bone pretty hard, though you likely have to see it to get it. One of the complainants worked as a prostitute at Nevada's Bunny Ranch and she was rattling off her life's accomplishments thus far, including an honorable discharge from the Air Force and the "Air Force's highest academic award, which I've used extensively in my 19 years in the Nevada brothel industry."

The judge inquired as to how one goes from the Air Force to the Bunny Ranch. Her response? "Well, it's only like an hour away." The Air Force must be so proud.

Well, I'll be blogging little over the next couple of weeks while I plunge into work to do the transition dance. Thereafter, I may have quite a bit more time for blogging and such as I'll be taking at least a week off prior to moving onto the next phase of my career. If I get lonely, perhaps I'll join the Air Force ...

Christmas Pills, New Year Thrills, and Dicking around the Holidays

2009-12-30T02:57:00.221-05:00

I had planned on steering clear of this blog until the new year. But I've got insomnia and perhaps pounding out a bit of drivel here beats counting sheep. It's been an interesting time thus far with the family in Arizona. Lots of campfire stories haunted by ghosts of familial dysfunction past. But primarily just stuffing my pie hole and vegging. Serious vegging. Which makes up for the lack of vegetables in my diet this week (unless the coco beans from chocolate count).

My sister Lynn is good at pulling on threads of dormant memories I'd thought were lost to me forever, unraveling a tapestry of singular moments in time. An elementary school teacher's name, a neighbor's eccentricity, commercials on TV, jobs held as a kid, the kinds of candy found at our little corner shops.

Each one of these off-hand remembrances lets loose a flood of imagery, at once dated and yet timeless, uniquely local yet universal. Penny candy back when it cost one cent. The lady across the street with the one crazy eye who would peek out her shutters all day. Silly shit like this, one memory tumbling into another like a string of dominoes toppling over.

I've been focused on the personal rather than the political this week; in fact, I haven't much been paying any mind to the goings on in the US or the world.

I'm vaguely aware of a would-be terrorist managing to thwart our vaunted security, almost blowing up a plane coming into Detroit International from the Netherlands and that Jon Gosselin's apartment in NYC got ransacked (whether by evildoers or his own publicity-hungry hand). Both important topics to be sure, but uninteresting to me this particular week.

Dick Cheney continued to make an ass of himself unabated this week, but that's hardly news. I swear the guy would laugh with glee upon learning Santa's sleigh had been hijacked by terrorists, the reindeer booby-trapped with high explosives and the sled filled to overflowing with bags of mustard gas before being crashed into the side of a children's orphanage if he thought it would cause some embarrassment to the Obama Administration. I don't say this in defense of Obama, who has disappointed me in many and varied ways in 2009. Still, as they say, a bad day golfing is still better than the best day at work. Obama/Biden are my "golf" to the Bush/Cheney "work" in this analogy.

Cheney's just plain bad news, the evil ogre under the bridge. And to think I had some vaguely positive things to say about the guy as SecDef during Desert Storm. I guess back then he was still at least partly Anakin Skywalker. He's clearly embraced the dark side since then (perhaps he always had and I just didn't see it). Some might call him Richard but to me he's the ultimate Dick.

Thankfully, I needn't concern myself with things politico right now as Maureen Dowd seems to be taking care of this for me. Dowd's piece today as usual echoes my thoughts from a political perspective to a tee. Though, oddly, she neglects to mention Jon G. But that's okay. Thanks, Mo.

We're off to see some sights in Phoenix this afternoon and evening. Specifically, the Desert Botanical Gardens and then the Zoo Lights. Film at 11. As for New Year's Eve tomorrow, it'll be a low-key affair, I'm sure. Very much unlike the drunken Vegas group hug I stumbled into this decade through. Both have their charms depending on your perspective.

I'm moving on to a new phase of my professional career come the middle of January so I need to start mentally preparing myself for that now. Finally, a New Year's Resolution I can keep! I'm headed out of the safety - and madness - of corporate life back into consulting again. Both have their crisp highs and deep lows - much like the Bose Wave System, according to their commercials - but at least with consulting the lows are transient (of course, so are the highs). So I'm nervous but excited.

I will say that the Christmas pills make this time of year bearable. Just be sure you have a festive container for said pills. Said containers make fantastic gifts. What are Christmas pills? Why they're the pills you put into the Christmas Pill Containers. Little magnetic twist-in-half or head-pops-open Snowmen or Santas or other similar figurines. Containers that some might assume are meant to contain other items (candy, spice, etc.). But they are in fact meant to contain pills. Screamers. Uppers. Downers. Laughers. The pills that get you from Thanksgiving to New Year without going insane. Rush understands this. As a bonus, they double as great Christmas Tree Ornaments.

"... She goes running for the shelter / Of her Santa's Little Helper / And it helps her on her way / Helps her through her busy day ..."

In any case, "talk to you" in 2010 ...

Some Festivus Vitriol (The Airing of Grievances)

2009-12-23T20:37:00.005-05:00

The beginning of another year is bearing down on us while most of this one sits in the rear view mirror. Large numbers of those who put pen to paper (bits to disk? words to the web?) are cranking out their lists of the best and worst (and best of the worst or worst of the best). Cliched for sure, an easy dodge. Being a cliched dodgy sort, I might be tempted to follow suit. But I'll resist the urge. This may be my last post of the year after all and if it is, I'd like to go out on a higher note than that.

Maybe just some good ol' Festivus Airing of Grievances. Who am I pissed off at this year?

The Philadelphia Eagles leadership, for hiring a serial sadist onto their team as a role model to all the football loving children the world over and now the Eagles players too, for voting him the 2009 recipient of the Ed Block Courage Award. Isn't that what the Wizard bestowed upon the Cowardly Lion? I only wish this squad very bad things in the weeks and months ahead.
Congress, for dessimating the healthcare legislation and then jerking themselves off in self congratulation over it. I can't stand either side of the aisle (or the aisle itself these days). I can't very well blame them - it's the system, which might be the best in the world but still blows pretty bad these days.
The lunatic fringe, who ultimately twisted the admittedly already very rubbery spines of the aforementioned legislators through their flames of bombastic hysteria. I can't really be all that mad at them, though, since they're only doing what they think is right, however misguided I might believe it to be. It's the cynical, money-grubbing swine who trumpet this kind of message for the sake of publicity and profit, pretending like they actually believe it. The ones who turn their high-powered fans on the flames. They're the ones I've got a bone to pick with. Clowns like Glenn Beck. That's way too easy. I'm lazy, so easy is good.
Oprah, for the imminent destruction of my beloved Discovery Health Channel. Why, oh, why OWN, Oprah? And why does its introduction mean the end of Discovery Health? What do they have to do with one another? Do you really hate discussions of incontinence that much?
Barack Obama, for being way too compromising - stand up for your core beliefs, man! Intelligent compromise in matters of foreign affairs can be good, but fuck 'em when it comes to domestic matters. You're being accused of being a Kenyan-born communist dictator already so it's high time you acted more like one! You know what I mean ... talk to Oprah, will ya? Order a cease and desist on the Discovery Health dissolution. I don't want Dr. G performing an autopsy on the very network that airs her show (I think the universe would explode).
Saturday Night Live, for being consistently not funny (I'm assuming this is unintentional but I could be wrong: they seem so good at it).
My neighbors, for being snow blowing bullies (see My Neighbors Blow for details).
Walmart. 'nuff said. Except the online caskets. I think those are pretty neat, as anyone who's slogged through this drivel knows all too well.

That's enough vitriol (and I'm fresh out of Geritol).

I've got an early flight tomorrow so it's off to bed soon. After catching Heathers for the umpteenth time on IFC. Gotta love such a sentimental tale during this joyous holiday season.

Happy Holidays and a Grand New Year to all. I can't wait to kick 2009 to the curb. Christ, did somebody on TV just say "Sarah Palin is the Greta Garbo of American Politics" or are my ears malfunctioning!?! Nope, I just hit rewind and there it is. Huh? Apparently because she grants so few interviews. Still, I don't see it. I guess if Garbo was a batshit loon and had a terminal case of Twitter Tourette Syndrome. Kick it to the curb indeed.

The many Faces of Kringle and Murphy

2009-12-21T20:49:00.010-05:00

Perhaps Santa does Slay ...

One of my friends clued me into an interesting article on the variations different countries have weaved into the Santa Claus mythology over the years, particularly on Kris Kringle's dark side. It seems Santa is not nearly so benevolent in some parts abroad as he is in the states; in fact he is downright diabolical, at least in the helpers he employs and what they have in store for naughty children. Hint? Those kids'll be begging for the lump of coal that constitutes the Claus domestic capital punishment after catching a whiff of what his foreign alter ego is dishing out.

Ahh, yes - now this fills me with the spirit of the holidays!

Flu-like Symptoms

The catch-all ailment of the stars. But it's not just for the Hollywood elite: you and I have surely used it too. And technically it's not a fib. The symptoms are "flu-like" after all. Flu-like as in "man, I'm so hung over I feel like I have the flu." Or maybe "shit, thinking about going into that office today is making me nauseous - perhaps it's the flu!" Is it such a leap from there to "man, I've been strung out on uppers, downers, screamers, coke, smack, and Jack for the past week and haven't slept in four days - coincidentally, I think I feel the flu coming on!"? It's all relative.

Brittany Murphy apparently had "flu-like symptoms" this past week prior to her untimely death from cardiac arrest yesterday at 32 years of age. Sadly, I wasn't all that surprised. Maybe it was the flu, but probably not. Generally influenza doesn't bring on a heart attack. It might well be something else entirely but my spidey sense is telling me it was an illness far too prevalent in Hollywoodland. Her skeleton-thin appearance has been been particularly concerning of late and there were those rampant rumors of having recently been given the boot from The Caller for "being extremely difficult" (rumors she vehemently denied). She was one of those living dichotomies, at once so full of life and yet with a strong tinge of "fuck it all" that seemed to envelop her like a mist she couldn't escape. Maybe this last was simply a reflection of my darker inclinations off the mirror of a kindred spirit. Or perhaps just a case of too much Behind the True Hollywood TMZ Music Story for this TV pop-culture junky.

Brittany represented one of my more potent Hollywood crushes over the years, from the time I first saw her in Bongwater. Thought I was gonna say Clueless, eh? Nope, I didn't catch that until many years later. Bongwater, though, is a great little flick that sadly never found much of an audience.

Now this Murphy attraction might not have been up in my pantheon with the likes of Mary-Louise Parker, Neve Campbell and Scarlett Johansson; however, it was nonetheless worthy of being included in the discussion. The thing with Brittany was the slightly naughty glint in her eyes and a personality bursting-to-pop with goofy, giddy life. Not necessarily a "classic beauty" - though she could clean up real nice - she did it for me far more than most of those who fit that bill. She also seemed extraordinarily vulnerable and slightly emotionally disturbed in a way I couldn't quite put my finger on. Perhaps that lent itself to the attraction - we shared a connection there possibly.

At the end of the day, though, Ms. Murphy's just another casualty caught in the cross hairs of the hills above Sunset. Regardless of the circumstances, 32's just too young to die of "natural causes." That strip sits in the shadow of the demise of countless stars and wannabes before her and it'll no doubt bear witness to a truckload yet to come. But it's just the tip of the iceberg next to the fade-to-black deaths of the great unwashed who never made it above street level there, never made it onto a movie set (well, not the sort with distribution to your local mall cineplex at any rate).

Tom Petty's cranked out more than his share of fatalistic hick-succumbs-to-Hollywood fare but the one that sticks in my mind whenever this sort of thing happens is a bit less obvious. It's also my personal favorite of his: Free Fallin'. The imagery of snaking around Mulholland and free falling from its heights in the hills to the valley below always struck a cord with me, especially after having driven it a few times. Whenever anyone meets an untimely demise up near its twisting and turning apex, I think of the roller coaster-like terrain and Free Fallin'.

Soon will come the E! True Hollywood Story and countless exposes from 20/20, 48 Hours, TMZ, etc. Time will tell as to the specifics surrounding her passing but it won't change the end result.

I hope the mist has cleared for you, Brittany. But you're dead, so how would you know? As Stanley Kubrick once wrote, "The dead only know one thing: It is better to be alive."

My Neighbors Blow

2009-12-20T14:58:00.008-05:00

Now I admit I'm not the most neighborly guy. I haven't taken the time to meet, greet and glad hand the denizens of my particular neck of the woods all that much, couldn't tell you their names or really much else about them.

When their kids were of stick ball and street hockey age I put up with their projectiles flying over the fence from the church parking lot into the side of my house, only occasionally chasing them away when they came within inches of my windows one too many times. I never caught the fuckers in the act of breaking those windows since it always seemed to happen when I was away, but I knew well enough who they were. Hell, I even retrieved the balls that landed up onto my second floor deck in the spirit of neighborly fun. They've since grown up and graduated to drugs and petty crime, I'm guessing.

Still, I'll confess: I'm not a touchy-feely, chat-it-up stalwart member of the community.

Now I feel vindicated as to why: they're all vicious swine, the lot of them.

Each one apparently has a state of the art snow-blower, one fancier than the next. With all the bells and whistles. Vibrating, heated recliner seats, 20000 PSI, 12 cylinder gas-guzzling, power-mad electronic beauties that could clear a path up Everest while serving you breakfast and clipping your toenails.

I'll admit it was hard to see clearly all the way up to the end of the block this morning through the 50 foot high plumps of pressurized snow emanating from the parade of humongous blowers but I swear the particularly evil white-haired Nazi encamped at the corner had a machine that was simultaneously clearing his walk, shampooing his scalp, and giving him a reach around. I squinted a bit harder and am sure I saw Dustin Hoffman strapped to the back of the thing with some diabolical dental instrument cutting into a fresh nerve at the root of one of his teeth. Is it Safe?

The noise was deafening this morning, sort of like pit row at the Indy 500. My head is still exploding from the sounds and the fumes while the taste of gasoline-laced snow consumes my tongue and throat after getting sprayed in the face with it over a sustained period of time.

Yes indeed, every Who in Whoville was out with their shiny Snow Blow Job 3000s save for one poor muck - me - hunched over in pain with his $5.00 plastic shovel, friend to the environment and procrastinating masochist, making about a foot of progress for every hundred yards the spit shine push button industrial complex all around him cleared.

And not one of these shitheads offered to come to his aid.

No, quite the contrary. They took particular delight in spraying huge mounds of icy white stuff all around this Who's property line, spilling deep into his hard-won hand-shoveled walk, erasing his back breaking handiwork and forcing him to endure the Bataan Death March Redux. And all the while these beasts were cackling with glee high atop their gleaming weapons of snow-mass destruction, rubbing their hands together C. Montgomery Burns-style.

Motherfuckers.

I plan to break into each garage in the days ahead, filling the tanks of their Snow Suck-n-Spray 9000s with nitroglycerin. The next storm will be a real blast, my good neighbors.

A plague on all your houses!!

Oh, and Happy Holidays!

Black and Blue and White all Over

2009-12-20T00:33:00.005-05:00

I'm snow blind and buried to my gonads in the putrid shit, shoveling my way into back spasms and strained muscles the likes of which I haven't felt in years. I doubt even Rush Limbaugh's medicine cabinet could spell relief for my aching bod tonight. Anyone who said snow is beautiful lives in an apartment or condo. Bah Humbug.

Come Christmas Eve I'll be winging my way to sunny climes (Phoenix to be specific) and away from Bing Crosby's dreaming. Fuck him anyway. He was nothing but a mediocre singer, a lousy actor and a serial child abuser. So, Christmas (and New Year) in Arizona away from where the huskies go with temptations to eat the yellow snow (I'm paraphrasing). Anyway, it's something I'm looking forward to. Meanwhile I've got more of the same to look forward to in my more immediate future that is Sunday. Glancing out the window, the shit just keeps on coming down.

Christ. I think it's time for Tylenol and bed.

Or not. I see on IFC we've got both Kill Bills playing and Pulp Fiction to boot. I just might be up all night. Ya see, I played my new Inglorious Basterds Blu Ray earlier and am still on a bit of a Tarantino high. And I didn't even like Basterds all that much; in fact, I enjoyed more the first flick of today's little double feature, the latest Star Trek. (BTW, Give this a go even if you never liked the Trek TV shows. It's pretty good on its own merits and as a bonus, Shatner isn't anywhere to be found.) But getting back to Tarantino, even if Basterds largely didn't work for me it was never boring. That's Quinton.

Why is it that I can get all exited about movies on TV that I own and can throw into the DVD player any time I want? Rhetorical question: it's because I'm Lazy with a capital L.

Perhaps I'll compromise and watch the rest of Kill Bill Vol 2 in bed. If I can get out of this chair. I should shovel one last time or tomorrow'll be that much worse. But I can't seem to get out of this chair.

[Postscript: Out of the chair, into bed, and up early - okay, 10:00am - to shovel my way into traction. Now at least it won't be so painful tomorrow morning digging my car the rest of the way out. At least I think that's my car under the especially large pile of snow in the driveway. Rush, I need your Oxy! Does your maid have relatives in Philly?]

[Kellogsscript: Dug out my car. Think I'm ready to surf to walmart.com and order up my casket now. This one looks comfortable and should be gentle to my aching back!]

"I got Silence on the Radio with a Driveway full of Snow" - Moonlight Mile '09 (Apologies to Jagger/Richards)

2009-12-18T23:36:00.006-05:00

I really wish I liked shoveling snow as much I as do shoveling shit. I'm speaking metaphorically about the latter, of course; I do in fact like shoveling actual snow more than shoveling actual shit. If the weathermen (and women) are right, we should get socked pretty good by old man winter tomorrow here in the Philly area. Dylan might have been right that you don't need a weatherman to know which way the wind blows, but apparently you need them to tell you ad naseum as to when and where the white stuff will be falling. More Al Roker than Bill Ayers, though they're both equally likely to be accurate in their predictions.

Should the weatherguessers beat the odds and the white stuff does arrive in force, I'll at least need to make an appearance on sidewalk patrol to avoid becoming even more of a neighborhood pariah than I already am. Whatever happened to enterprising teenagers looking to make a buck mowing lawns and shoveling driveways? Not that I ever did it as a kid but I just thought that was because I was lazy. The kids were always helping out us harried adults doing these kinds of chores for loose change on TV shows, after all. And television doesn't lie.

My God! As I'm writing this and flipping channels, I come across my fav, Dr. G, and hear immediately from the voice over that she is "cutting into the scrotum sack." #?@?! Like Pavlov's dog, these words cause my male reflexes to kick in, hands moving down to protectively shield the groin area from the Medical Examiner's blade.

There's a big close up of the good doctor's face as she's hacking away with relish - I'm just glad they don't actually show you what her hands are busy doing, apart from a couple of crude courthouse sketch-artist grade diagrams. The doctor is whish, whish, whish with the scalpel, the grand maestro conducting her cadaver orchestra. And all the while she's babbling away happily about the specific and putrid odor of a dissected bowel. Apparently she'd carved that up just prior to her current Bobbitsque act on this poor, dead dude's genitalia.

I have no idea what the context of all this is having arrived late to the party (and I'm surprised to say I've not seen this particular episode). That said, I do know I feel a helluva lot better about my lot in life suddenly. Things can always be worse. Except for that guy on Jan Garavaglia's slab with his ball sack sliced-n-diced and his bowels emptied into a bowl. I bet he'd kill to shovel snow given a choice between that and a guest appearance on Dr. G (it's not quite the same as doing Letterman). Three words you don't want to hear applied to you: standard Y incision.

And the next thing you know, Dr. G is out of this dude's bowels, out of the morgue and on the road to shop for supplies at a big ol' medical supply "mall" (sort of the Walmart of forensic sundries). Great segue, guys - I'm still gagging from the gross-out of the last examination and now Dr. G is trying a new pair of jumbo rib cutters on for size and checking out overhead exam lights on this little "lighter side" field trip. She seems out of her element among the living, outside the confines of that ghostly crypt that is her domain to me.

One quick Activia / Jamie Lee break and we're back in the exam room again, with more slicing and dicing and blood-filled silver bowls, followed by a good hose-down. The doc is back where she belongs!

"She turns her attention to the chest cavity."

Look, Ma! No more cavities! Cavities in teeth: bad. Cavities in chests: generally pretty good. It's a place for the heart to go - pretty much all of us have one of ample size, except for the Grinch and Dick Cheney. But they're special. And I hear they have machines that pick up the slack. And besides, the Grinch had that problem fixed by one Cindy Lou Who. Perhaps one day Dick will find his too. Meanwhile the machines will suffice.

The rest of us, we need our cavities and can do without Dr. G-types poking around in there.

Well, time to prepare for the snow. I'm all loaded up with Inglourious Basterds and Star Trek on Blu Ray now so I'm prepared for the weather.

Of course I forgot to buy rock salt earlier and it seems now that the public has drained the local supply (damn hoarders). Perhaps I'll be a pariah after all. I could always just nail a cardboard sign onto the telephone pole next to the sidewalk: Ice. Don't slip. After all, it's the thought that counts and that is at least as thoughtful as actually shoveling and salting the thing down. In my mind anyway.

Personally, I think the people doing the walking should be doing the shoveling (they've already out there in that shit and they're the ones that need to get somewhere). Meanwhile, I'm going nowhere pretty fast.

To Slur with Love

2009-12-15T22:20:00.003-05:00

Ahh, Courtney - my favorite human train wreck is in the news again with word that her daughter's finally had enough of the babbling head-on collisions, opting to live out the waning months of her life as a minor with her paternal grandma. Better known as Amy Winehouse's AA sponsor (she wishes!), Ms. Love has lately taken up roost on Facebook, hammering out head scratching non-sequitur-laced status post/rants from her computer keyboard like Cecil Taylor pounding free jazz from the ivories. Well ... perhaps not so much. More like what I would imagine Captain Beefheart might write were he to put pen to paper immediately after being beaten senseless with a baseball bat. Or maybe Allen Ginsberg shot through Andrew "Dice" Clay suffering from advanced dementia with a touch of LA Law's Benny Stulwicz. You get my point: batshit lunacy and scatterbrained linguistic scats.

But I say all this with love in my heart for the gal. I'm serious about that. She just seems so little-girl-lost that it's hard to get pissed at her antics. But I imagine it's a different story from the vantage point inside the eye of her particular storm. And she's certainly managed to marginalize what could be a considerable artistic career, were she to shake off the shakes long enough to want that.

I'm serious when I say I think Courtney Love's got mad skills. She did more than a fine job as an actress when she put her mind to it (see The People vs. Larry Flynt and Man on the Moon). And I think Hole's Live Through This is a great fucking album. One of my absolute favorites. And that's largely her doing. She's no "Yoko Ono", for sure. Of course, Yoko Ono wasn't really a "Yoko Ono" either - after all, the B-52s are indebted to her innovations. Now Linda McCartney - she was most definitely a "Yoko Ono."

Of course, what's Courtney done in the decade of the "00"s? I'm not sure even (or perhaps especially) she knows the answer to that.

Good luck, Frances. I hope you make it out of childhood in repairable shape - I feel a kinship with you. In an odd way, we had a similar set of parental units. Now, to be clear, my Chuck and Ruth were hardly Kurt and Courtney. But they did share a surprisingly similar brand of addiction and dysfunction. And, I imagine, myriad ways to embarrass.

It could always be worse. Sounds like your granny's got your back and just think: your name could be Lohan - now that would be a bitch, eh?

Tripping

2009-12-10T22:29:00.005-05:00

I just had to comment briefly on a strange chat William Shatner had back in August with Rush Limbaugh, to air on the biography channel this Saturday. Shatner, I'm sure you all know, is a master thespian, free love musician and acclaimed beat poet. But you might not be aware that he also hosts his own talk show on basic cable. It's called "Raw Nerve" and often lives up to that title (though perhaps "Weird Non-Sequitur" would be more apt). If you can't wait until Saturday, I've included it below.

As I've recounted in these pages, Shatner recently interpreted Sarah Palin's Twitter Tweets, enhancing her words with a crazy beatnik beat. He also gave equal treatment to Levi Johnson's twitter verbage. Yah, daddy-o. It was, like, way out. Much like his music. But taking on the Rush is something else again, sort of My Dinner with Andre with a healthy side of psilocybin mushrooms. Rush all strung out on Oxy-fueled Ego and Shatner all strung out on - well, Shatner. (I trip just watching him so I can only imagine what it's like being him, his heart pumping lysergic acid through his bloodstream 24/7.)

The actual content of the Shatner/Limbaugh summit is almost beside the point. It's the idea of these two yakking - the concept of it all - that's most interesting.

Anyway, children, put on Jefferson Airplane's Surrealistic Pillow - or Shatner's own Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds - dim the lights, plug in the lava lamps and groove ...

The Philanthropic Philanderer and other Random Nonsense

2009-12-09T16:19:00.001-05:00

I'm taken aback by the public's surprise over the recent Tiger Woods revelations. It doesn't turn my head, even if all the allegations are true. The guy's a super type-A personality (type AAA?) and I've known enough of them that I'm wise to their tendencies. Like the others I'd fit into this category, Woods has never come off as a "good guy" to me; in fact, I always thought he at least occasionally shops at the Jerk Store and might well be a regular customer. Personally, I'll take John Daly any day - he at least keeps his skeletons out on parade for all to see (even takes them on tour). John doesn't lock them up in a closet - they can develop a particularly concentrated rare trapped in there, as Tiger is discovering now.

On top of - and I'm sure enhancing - the driving type-A+ dickdom, Woods is one of the most famous and praised people on the planet, always the center of attention where ever he goes. Mix those ingredients all together in a (fish) bowl and bake it in the oven of the 24/7 media circus for a dozen or so years, you shouldn't be surprised if you don't end up with at least a couple of cookies on the tray fucking around on their partners. Sure, he gives back some healthy coin to charitable causes and donates time in that regard every now and then. That's just good business. The business of nurturing the Tiger Brand. And he'd been pretty savvy at that or so it seemed.

If some of the more outlandish behavior does turn out to be true (and we may never know), I am a bit surprised that he went about it so seemingly carelessly. Especially given all he has to lose. You may have noticed that he doesn't like to lose. It just seems very out-of-character for a guy who takes calculation and strategy to a level very few people reach. But it's not all that uncommon for those who are grappling in the depths of addiction to forgo the disciplines that come second nature in all other aspects of their lives, especially when they are in the midst of feeding their compulsion. Believe me, I know from where I speak. I'm not suggesting that's what's at work here with Tiger, but it's possible.

Okay, that's about three paragraphs more than I promised myself I'd devote to this particular fallen idol. After all, it's not the typical hard news I like to cover on these pages. You know me - always and only important topics like ...

Paris Hilton Tweets. Maybe I've got the vowels wrong there.
Dead Jacko. Is he still entombed? Or did they pull him out of the mausoleum for the holidays? As a sort of Christmas Tree replacement.
The War in Afghanietnam. Apocalypse Now II - Colonel Kurtz Jr. Conquers Tora Bora. "I love the smell of Heroin Poppies in the morning." I'm sure our Prez Barack O'Johnson .. er, I mean Obama wouldn't miss the premiere of this one. Just kidding, Mr. Prez. I hope. What's that I hear? "One two three, what are we fighting for? I don't know, I don't give a damn, next stop's Afghanistan ..." Country Joe, time for a second act?
The Endless Healthcare Roundabout. It appears our intrepid lawmakers are determined to debate the already-compromised-beyond-use legislation into literal nothingness - in fact, approaching anti-matter - perhaps agreeing simply to mail two aspirin out to every citizen and be done with it. I only wish Mr. Smith goes to Washington was real. And by that, I mean the remake envisioned by Homer Simpson and realized by Mel Gibson, Lethal Weapon-style:

Or something to that effect. Perhaps Maureen put it best here so I'll leave her with the last word on the Tiger and his Tail, at least from my corner of the world. Unless Woods goes bonkers and decides the best way to redeem his public image is an appearance on Dancing with the Stars with his new dance partner, Boy George. Should that happen I'm sure I'll have something to say, if only "I told you so." Because I did. Here.

It's the first real day of my vacation this week and I've thus far resisted logging into work email. I can tell my inbox is filling to burst, though. I can feel it. Cries from the great unwashed. Well, they'll just have to learn to clean themselves or stay dirty until Monday 'cause I've got more important things to do. Hawaii Five-0 is on, after all. The best ham and cheese to ever grace the small screen. Jack "The" Lord doesn't just chew the scenery, he lays out the silverware, slaps on the ketchup and wolfs it down with gusto. A great one today. Some disgraced ex-cop McGarrett had thrown off the force way back when for rampant corruption is now exacting his revenge, tormenting Steve-O, leaving anonymous threats and crazy non-clues and ultimately pinning a death sentence on the Governor (the Gov's assassination would ruin McGarrett's career apparently "because I'm responsible for his safety").

Five-0 commercials find me alternating between the beginnings of the pages of Third and Indiana and the rest of the HBO Rock and Roll Hall of Fame Concert resting out on my DVR. Springsteen and Rage against the Machine's Tom Morello doing Ghost of Tom Joad is incendiary (apologies to William Miller).

And the beat goes on ...

Channel Surfing with Dr G and Mary Louise

2009-12-07T21:56:00.004-05:00

How come Dr. G doesn't have a Christmas Special?

Our intrepid forensics pathologist could be decked out in candy striped scrubs, perhaps a dead-but-decorated tree in the corner of the morgue (one of last year's models). And holiday-themed corpses rolling in on twinkling-lighted gurneys, all set for their holly jolly standard Y incision.

A little eggnog with your Yuletide autopsies? Why thank you!

And who're we wheeling under the mistletoe for the good doctor? Perhaps a department store Santa who drops dead of a heart attack right in the middle of some little tyke sitting on his lap rattling off his Christmas wish list? Or a guy who electrocutes himself while attempting to string up his outdoor Xmas Lights? A man impaled when one of his roof-top reindeer decorations comes crashing down onto him, antlers first? For the kids, how about a baby mauled to death by a barnyard goat during the manager scene of a church Christmas pageant? Ho-ho-ho! I think if anyone could make this work, our Dr. G could. Medical Examiners celebrate the holidays too, I'm sure. In their own special way.

Switching from Dr. G ...

I ended up watching a great Mary Louise Parker flick from 1994, Naked In New York. I'm always thrilled when I stumble across a Mary Louise movie I haven't yet seen. It's the next best thing to being there, as an AT&T commercial once explained. Eric Stoltz and the Karate Kid are also featured in this b-movie and they're both likable enough. Eric's been in some great movies over the years (Mask, The Waterdance, Some Kind of Wonderful, Pulp Fiction, Hi-Life), and of course Ralph Macchio had his one-two punch of Outsider Johnny and Karate Kid that cemented his place in the pantheon of 80's schlock greatness. (By the way, you can neatly tie together Ralph's work through references made by Matt Dillon characters. As Dallas Winston in the Outsiders: "Let's do it for Johnny, Man!" - through to his role as Pat Healy in Something About Mary: "You know the classics - like Harold and Maude and the Karate Kid?". But I digress. And my Member's Only Jacket is clearly showing.)

These clowns are merely fodder, though; props to give my gal something to do, someone to interact with. But Mary Louise ... man. She continues to slay me. I would kill for her. Christ ... I sound like John Hinkley. (Jodie Foster? Really, John? Maybe 1990 Silence of the Lambs edition but certainly not the 1976 Taxi Driver model. And as it turned out, you didn't stand a chance, even if she had been into insane loner killers. She'd probably pass you by for Aileen Woornos.)

Of course, my devotion is just good old fashioned healthy lust. And I wouldn't literally kill for her. After all, I don't own a gun and don't much care for knives. So I speak of course only metaphorically. But I would totally give somebody a real piece of my mind for her. A real tongue lashing. For sure.

Proactive Procrastination

2009-12-07T13:16:00.001-05:00

Ahh, December. The month of lists - the best and worst of the year ending and predictions for the year to begin. It's also the month where many of us begin to take stock of personal accomplishments (or lack thereof) and to devise goals for the new year. And of course many come in the form of the dreaded New Year's Resolutions. As for me, there are definitely some things I need to get straight in my mind and then translate to action come 2010.

For instance ...

Cherry Coke Zero is not water, despite containing it. It is not nearly as good for me, especially when consumed by the gallon on a daily basis. Though probably much better than gin or beer or rat poison, certainly at the volume we're talking about here. So I'm getting closer but have some work to do still.

Watching A&E's Sell This House does not constitute actually going about selling my house.

Vitamins provide no nutritional value unless I actually ingest them (glancing at the bottle sitting on the windowsill of the bathroom each morning doesn't qualify). Vitamins are generally overrated but given my piss poor diet, they certainly can't hurt.

Though technically "exercise", traversing the "treacherous" staircase connecting the first and second floors of my house is not exactly scaling Everest. Though to be fair, I have no Sherpa to guide me and generally make the journey without aid of supplemental oxygen (thus far). Still, I need to develop and stick to a regular - and more importantly, real - exercise regiment.

Really I'm just being proactive in devising my list of New Year's resolutions I plan on subsequently ignoring, rather than waiting until the last minute to do so, as is my normal M.O.

Anyway, I usually throw up my Chinese New Year dodge when January 1st arrives, giving myself another several weeks of guilt-free procrastination. Sort of like the groundhog seeing his shadow - it means ~six more weeks of last year. Then the dragons dance down Arch Street in Chinatown here in Philly, the firecrackers explode, The Year of the Something turns the page to The Year of the Something Else and the guilt kicks in full stride: the gym not joined, the junk food not trimmed down, the house not repaired/cleaned/sold (or repaired and cleaned so that it might be sold).

But I will get a haircut today. So there's that. And I did go for a run yesterday (well, more a trot). Baby steps.

And the upcoming year will be different! After all, Chinese New Year 2010 is the Year of the Tiger and so was 1962, the year I was born. That surely means something (it only happens every 12 years, according to the last menu I read). Plus it falls on Valentines Day and that's gotta be some sort of sign too (besides the introduction of the Vermont Teddy Dragon - or Teddy Tiger - to complement their Teddy Bear).

The end of this god awful "00s" decade means it's time to start fresh.
Who knows? I might just go crazy and get a hair cut and go for a run every month next year.

Sunday's Best ... (Okay - Sunday's Dreck)

2009-12-06T15:21:00.001-05:00

The first snowfall of the year here in Philly - really, more a sleet/snow mix. It was quite lovely to look at and thoroughly miserable to be out in. So I did more of the former and avoided the latter (easy to do when you're stuck working all day, as I was Saturday in an effort to prepare for the upcoming week off). But work is now done and I can turn my attention to more pressing matters. Whatever they might be. I'm sure I have some. Maybe not.

The hard physics problem I was grappling with yesterday while trying to juggle work and a football game? How to reach into the television with my jumper cables and attach them to the testes of the nitwits calling the SEC title game.

I was in an especially dark mood but I think with these clowns even Rachael Ray would be screaming "god damn babbling, yammering morons with special needs turrets - shut the fuck up or drop dead!" Or something to that effect. Then again, maybe that's her modus operandi whenever she's planted in front of the tube. Folks with sunshine beams flying out of their asses 'round the clock are always suspect in my book.

But I'm meandering off track, as I'm wont to do. Perhaps in a desperate attempt to hide the fact that I got nothing "on track". I'm exhausted from the madness of the week's corporate chaos - mentally drained and in no shape to wax poetic on life's amusing follies.

Now it's Sunday and I'm listening to more brain-dead motor mouths calling the pro games. Cables clamped on car battery, other end clamped to your testes, then I climb behind the wheel and rev the engine. Call that play, dickhead. Verbal diarrhea in need of binding. Eat some cheese, shitheads.

Clicking around the dial I see on Pay Per View "Jerry Springer/Big-Breasted". Hmm. Springer *and* breasts? Intriguing. Tell me more. Well, for just 9.99, you can see Jerry "shine the spotlight on the most-magnificent mammaries ever to grace his studio in this titillating collection of clips." Clearly for the most discriminating tastes only. Personally, I think that selecting "buy" for this fine selection should trigger an alarm in the local firehouse, followed shortly thereafter by the arrival of a fire-engine full of bruisers at your doorstep, there to kick the living shit out of you (they'll first allow you to pull your pants back up, if you're lucky).

Boy, I'm really filled with vitriol this weekend. That's not such a bad thing. Vitriol - it does a body good. Maybe it's all the coffee I've been slugging down. Too much caffeine with me leads to bad skin and a pissy mood. I should probably go for a run or something. Get my frustrations out. Fucking Michael Vick scores a touchdown in Atlanta. And the crowd is filled with people cheering him. A plague on all their houses. I'm definitely going for a run.

Okay, this post is way too long for such drivel. Perhaps I'll be inspired later. A run with Dylan on the iPod might do it. No, I need more anger. Black Flag, perhaps. Rage Against the Machine, maybe.

Until then, I apologize for any of you who've made it this far. They're not all this bad. Not all of them.

I've started five books in the past month and have no desire to finish any of them. I need to get my hooks into something really interesting as my A.D.D grows more severe with age. Chronic City by Jonathan Lethem is the one next on my list. Perhaps that will do the trick. Meanwhile, after the run, I think I'll re-read Ginsberg's Howl, just for the fuck of it (it's one of my coffee table books that isn't about coffee tables). That will also help dissipate some righteous indignation percolating through my psyche. Just trying to find the release valves where ever they might be before it all erupts (usually on undeserving innocent bystanders for all the wrong reasons).

And so I'm off into the chilly late Autumn afternoon to slap shoe to pavement and drag my frustration along for the ride (hopefully, I can give it the slip in the bargain).

Sometimes kicking off the holiday season is a real Hasselhoff

2009-11-29T21:29:00.009-05:00

The Hasselhoff clan enjoyed a fine start to the holiday season this weekend, David being rushed to the hospital for what most folks assume is another case of alcohol poisoning and his ex-wife arrested for a DUI.

Ahh, the sights and sounds of that most magical time of the year - it really takes me back to those days of yore growing up. What says Christmas more than the holiday colors of the ambulance and police siren lights in your driveway? Perhaps only the evergreen shade of Dad's vomit splattered on the yule log and his snow white stubble grown over the course of a five day bender. Eggnog, anyone?

Ho-ho-ho!

That's as good a pratfall into this holiday season as any - thanks, David. Perhaps someone ought to pick him up a casket on walmart.com for Christmas - might be a timely gift. Whatever Santa brings you, I'm sure it'll be appropriate.

Seems even the perfect Tiger Woods was having a bit of a rocky domestic go of things this weekend as Black Friday bleeds into Cyber Monday.

Speaking of Cyber Monday, I've got a week of mad craziness at work before I take a break for a few days, and I'm expecting the asylum to be especially loony on a number of levels. So I'm hanging up my blogging shoes for the next five days unless something truly significant compels me to post (even then, I may hold off until Friday).

So I'll finish off the evening in typically schizophrenic fashion, clicking incessantly between Frost/Nixon (the parallels between Hasselhoff and Nixon are eerie), Gladiator, Apocalypse Now, HBO's Rock and Roll Hall of Fame 25th Anniversary Concert and Animal House. Mostly the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame show. Lou Reed and Metallica doing Sweet Jane! That made my weekend. And U2, Springsteen and Patti Smith doing Because the Night (Patti's version)! Made my weekend twice. Patti and Lou. Is anything more New York?

Catch you on the other side.

Secretary Lapre?

2009-11-27T20:18:00.029-05:00

My mentor Don Lapre once said "Small ads equal big profits."

Actually, that was pretty much the only thing he said, but he managed to do it in many and varied ways, always with an enthusiasm normally only seen from coke fiends on a four day jag.

This guru clearly provides sage advice in any era but it's especially profound given today's economic climate.

I see you cringing. "Steve!", you exclaim. "Don Lapre is a has-been and when he did have a TV presence on those 3am Making Money infomercials in the 90's, he was a transparently cartoonish huckster. His utterances were pure nonsense."

My reply is simple: That's the point. That's his genius.

And don't forget his good works in the 21st century: "Greatest Vitamin in the World!" They were some pretty good vitamins, I hear (better even than Flintstone Chewables or - dare I say - Lucy's Vitameatavegamin).

Mr. Lapre is a man whose time has finally come. Two dimensional (really, closer to 1 1/2 dimensions) and so cartoonish he makes Roger Rabbit seem like Edward R. Murrow. A guy whose catchphrases - indeed, almost everything he has said or written, including the contents of his Making Money package - are filled with more mumbo jumbo than Alice through the Looking Glass.

And I know: I bought Making Money back in 1998. I did it not so I could make money for myself - it was clear it wouldn't be much help there - but to help Don make money. It was the Pet Rock of Get Rich Quick schemes, minus the rock. It was magnificence unbounded - truly a sight to behold. Mainly, I did it out of curiosity and I was most definitely not disappointed.

This is precisely why Don's more essential than ever. We live in a world where the goings on of our nation's financial industry resemble nothing so much as a Road Runner re-run strained through the worst sort of acid trip and topped with unbridled brilliance in the art of idiocy.

Folks are calling for Tim Geithner's head. He's a sharp numbers guy, but he's pretty light on charisma, on camera presence, on pitching lumps of shit and making the world see diamonds. That's Don's sweet spot. We need to sell small ads to countries with deep pockets and gullibility to spare (not an all that uncommon combination). Like Don did, we'll start out from "our tiny one-bedroom apartment" at 1600 Pennsylvania Ave. Ship those All American Making Money packages at 50 mil a pop of pure profit. If anyone can sell it, our boy can.

I say let's welcome Treasury Secretary Don Lapre to the cabinet.