Alice in Wonderland

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.

Saudi Sorcery and Middle Eastern Country Western Remembrances

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 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 Sadists and Milkaholics Among Us

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.

Sweepers, Sweepers: Man Your Brooms

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.

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

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:

1. 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.
2. 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

Medical Musings

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.

Billy Dee - The New Williams on Tiger's Bag

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?

Channel Surfing with Dr G and Mary Louise

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.

My head's been filled with Mr. Yuk

Whatever happened to Mr. Yuk?  I recall him clearly from my childhood and he's apparently still out and about, but keeping a mighty low profile since his glory days in the early 70's.   Not sure why: there's far more poisons to strike fear into the hearts of parents today (or at least we recognize more of them as such now).

I hadn't had a conscious thought of the poster boy for the dangers of poison since his hey day until earlier this week when I inexplicably dropped his name in a discussion on new process adoption ("old way, bad like Mr. Yuk; new way, good like Mr. Pibb").  Never mind that Mr. Pibb doesn't conger up visions of wonderful, I don't have an explanation of why Mr. Yuk slipped from my lips.



Ahh, is there nothing better than 70's TV Commercials?  They just don't make 'em like that anymore.

Though I must admit I'm quite fond of the Halls Refresh Commercial making the rounds, if only for its high octane creep factor taken to a degree I'm sure its makers did not intend.  Or maybe they did.  Either way, it has an effect.  It's certainly nowhere near as creepy as those horrid Charles Schwab commercials (I blame them for the collapse of the financial industry).



This post is obviously going nowhere - at least I'm consistent in that regard.  When I was churning this garbage out daily, it didn't matter as much; however, seeing as though I'm only getting around to it on the weekends, I outta try a bit harder.  I just don't have the energy.

I'm enjoying the umpteenth viewing of Unforgiven, one of my very favorite flicks.  I never liked most of Eastwood's 70's and 80's Dirty Harry-centric action flicks (though they were sort of entertaining in a 'B' movie, guilty pleasure kind of way).  His spaghetti western stuff was classic, though not my cup of tea (and his follow-on cowboy movies through the 70's followed suit, albeit without Leone's style or the cheesy dubbing).  I love the work he's done over the last twenty years, though.  Both in front of but especially behind the camera.

Unforgiven is my top pick of Eastwood's fine 90's/00's litter (fighting neck and neck with Million Dollar Baby and Mystic River).  I'm not a big Western aficionado but Unforgiven turns the genre on its head, mocking all the stereotypes with a jaundiced eye biting on a raw nerve.  And the music's perfect. If you ever shied away because you don't dig Westerns and/or disliked Eastwood's earlier work, do yourself a favor and give it a go.

But now it's over and that means Bedtime for Bonzo, drifting off to a re-run of Kill Bill, Vol. 1 (my favorite of the Bill flicks, though most who like them at all seem to opt for Vol 2).  Not Tarantino's best in my view but entertaining, funny and great tunes all the same.  A glorious mess.  Volume 3 was recently announced for release around 2014.  That's certainly planning ahead (or maybe wishful thinking).

Hopefully tomorrow will be a better day.  I won't have to go to work, so that already makes it a step up from every day of the past three weeks.  But I probably shouldn't jump the gun on that (I think I thought the same thing each of the past two Friday nights).

And finally ... I'm looking forward to the season finale of Mad Men on Sunday, as well as the final episode of the "Seinfeld" story arc on Curb Your Enthusiasm.

After all, I dare to dream big.

Survivin' with Stroud, Ragin' with Rollins

A Survivorman marathon on a rainy Saturday afternoon finds me watching Les Stroud demonstrate his MacGyver like survival skills through the sundry jungle/desert/mountain locations he throws himself into.

For those not clued into this world, Canadian Les Stroud is deposited into various survival situations and left to fend for himself for seven days with just the equipment that any hiker, boater, mountain climber, plane crash victim, etc. might have with them (plus his trusty harmonica). Sometimes he's left with a broken down car or the fuselage of a plane. Once, he floated into the wilderness in a hot air balloon. Les operates all the cameras during these seven days as he devises ways in which to get food/water/shelter and avoid spiders, snakes, tigers, foot rot, diarrhea, heat, cold, snow, rain, etc.

Stroud only filmed three seasons worth of these hour-long shows before tiring of the misery (and I guess there's only so many ways you can make starting a fire interesting). Still, Les is the man - he beats Man Vs. Wild's Bear all to hell in the purity of his work (he's not nearly as showy).

But after having watched every episode countless times, I'd still be a goner were I left in these situations in real life. I just don't pay attention to the important things. Mostly, I watch to see what commercials play during the show. And to count the number of times Les repeats "Here I am, surviving in the [Amazon Jungle|Australian Outback|South Seas Deserted Island|Alaskan Wilderness]."

Today, the Survivorman marathon was showing on the Discovery Channel (it also plays on the National Geographic and Science Channels). No ads for camping gear or other outdoorsy/survival stuff; instead, we got life insurance and food/drink pitches. Frankly, I invariably take Stroud's lessons the wrong way. For instance, when Les contracted diarrhea on the one occasion he couldn't scare up a fire to boil the nasty looking water he was eventually forced to drink, I just got jealous that it made him so regular.

And like that, the Survivor marathon is over.

During Mr. Stroud's adventures, I loaded up my iTunes with a bunch of Henry Rollins Spoken Word releases I discovered I didn't already have (including a reading of his seminal book on the good ol' days with Black Flag, Get in the Van). Now I'm enjoying listening to his world view while Penn State beats up on Michigan.

Rollins is one of my personal heroes and I don't even much care for his music, certainly not for his poetry and his acting makes Ice-T seem like Brando. I liked Black Flag okay, though he was a late comer to that band and didn't contribute to their best music, in my opinion. The stuff he puts out with the Rollins Band is sort of speed metal and the lyrics and tone reflect more on his poetry than on his spoken word stuff and the diaries he's published. And it's the latter two things that I love so much.

It's hard to describe the Rollins spoken word shtick - sort of a melding of audio blog/diary, political stand-up comedy, and raging angry everyman rants, with a healthy dollop of self-deprecating humor included in each serving. Henry is an interesting cat. Self educated, he's a voracious reader who delves into the details of every major issue of the day, depressingly well prepared to defend his opinion. We see eye-to-eye on a lot of things, but certainly not everything. Henry's way over-disciplined in pretty much all aspects of his life, but he's never boring. If you're interested, I recommend checking out his catalog on his 2/13/61 web site.

Of Norse Gods and Giants and Amercian Goats and Shit

My Norwegian compadres on the Nobel committee did nether the US or Obama any favors by awarding the Peace Prize to our neophyte President, however noble their intentions (bad pun unfortunately intended).

True, he's made the world more amenable toward peace simply by not being George W. Bush and he's pretty good at it. I personally think he's mostly making the right moves, though at a much more leisurely pace than I would have liked.  Oh sure, there are a bunch of little things that bother me about what Obama's done or not done on one issue or another. There always will be until someone elects me president.  Even then, I'd find a way to find fault with some of my decisions immediately upon making them (perhaps especially then).   All in all, though, Obama's doing okay.

But the Nobel Peace Prize?

At the end of the day, Obama's the commander in chief responsible for two wars of our own making and it doesn't really matter that he inherited them. He's clearly accelerating the Afghan campaign and to my eyes not made nearly enough progress in getting us out of the muck that is Iraq.   And nothing else he's accomplished besides not being Bush has had time to bear fruit yet.  Perhaps they need a Nobel Not-Bush Prize.  Barack totally deserves that one.

And of course there are the downsides to winning a Nobel Prize for nebulous reasons: The right wing fear mongers now have more fodder for monging ("it's a vast worldwide leftist conspiracy!").  These are the people that cheered the news that we didn't get the 2016 Olympics because Obama lobbied to get it.  I imagine they'd cheer firebombing of orphanages if Obama came out against the idea.

But enough of this political claptrap - let's talk about important things, like Marge Simpson at long last making the cover of Playboy Magazine.  Alas, no Jessica Rabbit style centerfold to go along with it, but it shows that cartoon cougars can be bad too (well, not bad; just drawn that way).

I'm sitting here watching Discovery Health (naturally; what's an old fogy going to do on a Friday night?) and on comes yet another commercial by a company whose advertisements seem isolated to this channel: Home Delivery Incontinent Supplies (HDIS).   I've never seen so much as a reference to them anywhere else.  Know thy demographic.  And so they do, but I hope I won't need their services for a good long time.

I've mentioned HDIS in a prior posting, but it bears repeating for those who missed it: this company caters solely to those whose bladders and bowels are so out of control that they can't make it through the checkout line at the supermarket without leaving a trail of piss and shit in their wake.  Or maybe to those who are simply embarrassed to roll up to the "15 items or less" aisle and get yelled at by the gum popping teenager working the register for having 15 packs of Depends and a large block of cheese ("that's 16 items shit-for-brains!").   Who wants that?  Let HDIS ship your bowel and bladder control needs right to the front door!  Another bushel of butt plugs for the Petersons!

On that bright note I catch a glance at the clock: 11:20pm, time for bed.  Gotta get caught up on my reading: The Men who Stare at Goats has been teed up on my nightstand for a while and I've only gotten a few pages into it.

Goats, Shit, Piss and the Nobel Peace Prize.  Who could ask for anything more?

Sister Morphine, meet my acquaintance Chalupa from down the block

I'm slightly less full of shit today. I caved and went for the all purpose Chalupa from Taco Bell, the straw that finally broke the camel's back (or, or accurately, sent this bowel camel running for the john). The massive gobs of fat and rancid secret recipe juices provided just the jolt my digestive system needed to wake it from its extended slumber. Drop The Chalupa, indeed. Gidget the Taco Bell Chihuahua died a few months back, but her beloved Chalupa is still bringing joy to millions (though God knows not in the taste buds - it was clearly designed for more medicinal uses).

To be fair, I got a lot of advice during my week long malady and it was likely the combined effects of these more 'traditional' (non Taco Bell-based) remedies that did the heavy lifting. I've never been the most regular person, despite my slavish devotion of all things Activia (damn you, Jamie Lee). But a week lost wandering in the desert is too long even for a crap camel like me; I'm glad it's over and I can re-join civilization again.

Several of you provided me with longer term dietetic and homeopathic strategies toward regulation and I plan on following them. I'll give it my best effort anyway, which admittedly doesn't count for a whole lot. Thanks much to all who passed on their wisdom.

The trick with "thinking outside the bun" is moderation. I don't run for the border that is Taco Bell all that often but when I do, I limit my selections to Meximelts and Chalupas (and no more than two each, taken orally with gallons of water).

I swear that place ought to require a doctor's prescription: it's powerful stuff that can really play havoc with your GI tract if you're not careful. Yet I see young people in there with no obvious ailments, pretending to "enjoy" the stuff cause the cool kids are doing it. It starts out with recreational "snacks" and the next thing ya know, you're strung out and locked for hours a day in the can.

Just say no. Drop the Chalupa. I heard they actually have Taco Bell locations in Mexico now. That's just so wrong. It should be a felony to operate a Taco Bell in the Southwestern US, let alone Mexico, without the appropriate DEA controls. It most certainly shouldn't be legal to sell it as food there (and what idiots would actually attempt to buy it as such when real Mexican cuisine is plentiful?) Treat it like medical marijuana.

But just as I wouldn't want the kids of our nation hooked on smack, I wouldn't want to deny somebody in agony in a hospital ICU access to morphine to dull the pain. And so it is with Taco Bell's medications.  One Chicken Chalupa with lactated ringers and D5W then transport to the restroom stat.

Bowels and Bras and Gas - Oh My!

Today the mind is wandering as I reflect on my porcelain friend and better days gone by.  How long has it been since we last danced cheek to cheek?  Three days?  Four? No.  Five.  Five shitty days of shitlessness.

And no, I don't need your sage advice.  I've tried it all: exercise, bushels of dried fruit, oceans of spring water, enough Activia to make Jamie Lee Curtis herself run for the can, Metamucil by the shovelful. 'Super Colon Blow'-level fiber in the diet. Roughage to the point where the contents of my stomach could be used to peel paint off your walls.

Nothing.

Liquid Plumber is next on my shopping list.  I'm usually full of shit on several dimensions but I try (and lately, fail) to restrict them to the metaphorical variety.  As you can see, at the moment I'm failing.

So in search of online diversion from my offline malady, I stumbled across this wonderful article on an invention that deserves more notice than it has gotten to date: the bra that converts into a functioning gas mask!  I almost shit my pants laughing.  If only.  Sigh. I wish I had one of those bras here with me now because although my bowels may be dysfunctional, it doesn't mean they aren't functioning at all (Jumping Jack Flash, it's a gas, gas, gas).  All smoke and no fire.

But I imagine you didn't tune in to listen to ruminations on my digestive woes.

Indeed.

But I just let fly with whatever musings come running out of my head down onto the keyboard, happy I have the runs somewhere.

What really backs my pipes up is the shitstorm deja vous going on in Congress with healthcare.  I'm sick of the whole lot of them. The Democrats couldn't get a law passed against roasting baby kittens in public parks if they had a 100% majority in both houses.

Far too often the resistance is due to a bunch of unrelated pork that slips in.  But when the resistance is due to right wing rabble-rousing or even just philosophical differences (as is the case now), why can't the Dems just say, "fuck you, we won, deal with it!"  They're not going to get any support anyway so why not pass something useful?  But nooooo, that's just not their way, the weaselly worms.

A healthcare bill of some sort will pass in the end, without any support of the Republicans and without any of the provisions that would make the legislation useful (that is, actually providing healthcare to those who cannot currently afford it). The right-wing fearmongers did a great job in dredging up a small but vocal outcry by those who live in terror that any sort of government expansion means the drum of Soviet-style communism beats not far behind.  Strangely, these same folks have no fear of the expansion of the military (in their eyes, the DOD can't grow fast enough).   They know people in the military.  They aren't government!  They're 'us'!  All said without a trace of irony.  Yo, Charlie - the government is us.

I'm a libertarian liberal (some would label that an oxymoron but I've been called worse).  That means I believe there are hundreds of government entities that should be disbanded (many, but certainly not all of them, belong to the DOD).  That said, a public option for healthcare is both innocuous and essential, in my opinion.  I'd have some respect for the Dems in congress if they disagreed with me but the fact is they don't - they just haven't had the political spine to follow through on their own convictions.

I only wish Hunter was still around to riff on all this idiocy.  Guess I'll just have to be satisfied with Maureen.

But enough focus on these swine, time to watch Washington dismantle the Rudy-less Notre Dame Drunken Irish.  Go Huskies!

Who let the dog in? Woof, Woof, Woof, Woof

Michael Vick re-signs with Nike, eh?  They're obviously convinced he's rehabilitated. And they would certainly know. Because they're fair minded people.  Sure, they want to make a buck; however, they'd never compromise their core principles in that pursuit.  I believe that.  The problem, of course, is their core principles. It would be refreshing for them to compromise them for once, let a little good old fashion dignity in there. Or maybe just a little tact.  "But gosh, Steve," you say. "Michael made a mistake, America's all about second chances!"

A mistake?  Okay, sure.

Oops! Didn't mean to hold that dog's head underwater so long! Or the one before that and then there were those others - see the pile of rotting mistake carcasses up against the garage? 

Darn! The electrodes slipped!  I didn't mean to place them around Laddie's gonads with live current runing through them! Sorry, Rover. Excuse me, Rex.  Apologies, Rin Tin Tin.  Man, did you see those sparks?!?  Sniff. Sniff.  What's that odor?  Is somebody barbecuing?!?  Throw another dog on the grill for me!  Extra ketchup!

Perhaps Nike is branching out yet again.  I mean they make everything from golf equipment to clothing to watches.  Maybe they're coming out with a whole new line of Nike branded merchandise:

• The 'After Party' Canine Corpse Handling Gloves ("keeps the blood - off your duds")
  
• Loser Doggy Drowning Tubs, with attached swoosh emblazoned leather head brace!
  
• High voltage Maimed Mutt Electrode Testicle Teasers! 
  

"Need to put a few Rovers down?  Have fun as they fry or a blast as they drown!   Shoooossshhh!"

A mistake?  There are certainly more than enough of those to go around.  Were his crimes that heinous in the grand scheme of things? Perhaps the effect was fairly low on the totem pole of atrocities.  But the intent was right up there with the worst of them.  And in the end, in my book, that's what counts. 

Hey, PETA, time to dust off those Nike signs of yore ...

Okay, I'm done with ragging on Vick.  You can only beat a dead horse so long, so-to-speak.  But a dead dog?  Well, just ask Mike ...

[Postscript: Vick, it turns out, didn't re-sign with Nike.  Nike simply gave him free clothes and equipment for the honor of having him use and wear the stuff, cause God knows you want your brand associated with sadism. Which changes nothing, since it means the same from an ethical point of view (it simply means they not only have no morals, they have no spine either).]