Top Gun: The Shoulda Been Sequel

Present day. 

Maverick is standing over Goose's grave on the 30th anniversary of his death, in a chauffeur's outfit (but still wearing aviator's wings of gold on his chest). 

In a flashback, we learn Iceman and Mav had been booted from the Navy for involvement in the tailhook scandal of the early 90s.  They subsequently found Top Gun Limo, which had great success until the economic collapse of '08, leaving them as its only drivers. 

Back in the present day.  Suddenly, creepshow style, Goose's gnarled hand breaks out of the grave and grabs Mav's foot. His flaming skull bursts out of the ground, filled with worms and bugs, singing "You've Lost that Lovin' Feelin'" in a hideous moan.  Dozens of corpses burst out of surrounding graves. 

Regaining his composure, Mav runs to his limo, which is decked out to look like an F-14, complete with afterburners. Mav drives away with the ghouls on his tail. He radios Ice that he needs help. "There are bogeys - no, boogeymen - all over me!" 

Ice tells him to drive to the nearest Scientology Center, which just then appears over the horizon, a huge structure in the shape of an aircraft carrier.

Inside the center, with corpses on his heels, Mav finds who he thinks is John Travolta dressed up as his Battlefield Earth character. "Oh John!" he exclaims, "Thank Ron you're here!" Terl snarls, "I'm not Travolta, you worthless man-animal! Now, out with you!" He throws Mav to the curb and slams the door. 

All the corpses are into the last verse of Lovin' Feelin' just before descending on Mav, Goose in the lead. 

Meg Ryan sits at a piano in the parking lot watching this, gushing "Oh, Goose ya big lug!" before segueing into her When Harry Met Sally orgasm scene for no particular reason. 

Inside the center, Kelly McGillis churns butter in her Witness Amish attire at Travolta/Terl's command. 

A very fat Iceman pulls into the parking lot in his F-14/Limo, thinks better of it after surveying the scene, and pulls back out, leaving Mav to die. 

Roll credits.

mid-term crazy

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

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

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 ...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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."

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

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

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

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

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 Mouse That Was My Vietnam

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?

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

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

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.