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

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

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?

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.

Andy's Art, Dollars and Nonsense, Talkin' with Walken

An Andy Warhol painting went for 43+ million last week at Sotheby's.  Valuation of art is a strange and complex thing, playing out quickly or over millennia.  In many ways, it is precedence driven, and there's currently a chain reaction of ballooning Warhol worth.

I dig Andy's work fine but geez, that's a lot of mula for a picture of a lot less mula (200 $1.00 bills, to be exact).

And I like Andy's stuff a lot more when it lives within its proper context (the Factory, Edie and Co., the Velvets, the swinging 60's, etc.).  It loses its pizazz flowing through  Richie Rich Sotheby's auction house and into C. Montgomery Burns' vault.





Otherwise, give me Ralph Steadman,Francis Bacon and Jackson Pollock.

You want real art?

How about Christopher Walken's recent interpretation of Lady Gaga's Poker Face?  Now, that's something to behold. Walken is the king of the single scene, from his debut in Annie Hall, to True Romance and Pulp Fiction, and on to SNL's Southern Colonel Angus ("He's heading down South") and Blue Oyster Cult Producer ("I need more Cowbell").  Ya can't beat him with a stick.  Oh!





Needs more Cowbell, though.

Here comes Oprah Claus! Here comes Oprah Claus! Right down Oprah Claus Lane!

It's Christmas time in Hollis Queens

Mom's cooking chicken and collard greens 

Rice and stuffing, macaroni and cheese 

And Santa put gifts under Christmas trees

Ahh, the traditional sounds of the Holidays.  But I'm not feelin' it yet, even with the harmonies of Reverend Joey Simmons and Darryl McDaniels warbling through the stereo speakers. (Whose house? Run's House!)  Maybe I need the weather to turn colder.  Perhaps once Thanksgiving is past us.

I miss the wise counsel of The Most Interesting Man in the World.  He seems to have drifted off the page, so to speak. And when he does make an appearance, it's only to let me know where I've been, not where I must go next. Thanks to him, I know the after party is the one you want to go to. But what should I do after that?  In some ways, he represents what's true and real about Christmas.  A Santa Claus for the new age, kind of.  A Dos Equis-drinking (though, he reminds us, "not always"), womanizing, partying, adventuring Saint Nick.

Speaking of Saint Nicolas, maybe Nicolas Cage can provide some yuletide guidance in his new flick The Bad Lieutenant: Port of Call New Orleans. I was a big fan of the first Bad Lieutenant film when it came out back in 1993, that one showcasing an under appreciated Harvey Keitel performance to my mind as good as his more acclaimed romps through Taxi Driver, Reservoir Dogs, Pulp Fiction, etc.

There are some real rave reviews for this Bad LT "sequel" (its only relationship to the original is the title character's profession, rank, and corruption).  Many have proclaimed this Cage's best performance since Leaving Las Vegas, his wicked lieutenant sharing much with the protagonist of that film (tortured soul, substance abuser).  Unlike the earlier Keitel crime drama, this new one isn't a brutally serious NYC-based fallen angel/Catholic guilt parable but rather a brutally bleak black comedy, set in post-Katrina New Orleans.   Maybe it'll put me in the holiday spirit!

Meanwhile the pop culture world is a blaze this week with Oprah putting the kibosh on her gabfest after 25 years and vampire fever striking the tweeny-bopper crowd (and those older folk with similar sensibilities).  Personally, just give me Ed Wood's friend Bela Lugosi and Lily Munster, thank you very much. You can keep yer twlight's last gleaming and yer honest plasma.

Speaking of the Divine Miss 'O', Oprah's next act appears to be her own network (the Oprah Winfrey Network, natch), rolling out in 2011.  It's supposed to "replace the Discovery Health Channel."  Forget government takeover of Healthcare, I'm way more concerned about the Oprah machine taking over my Discovery Health.  She's got ten times the juice of our puny government and I depend on my friends at Discovery Health to get me through the day a lot more than I do my PPO lately.

Oprah, what the fuck are you trying to pull?  You trying to put Liberator Catheter Lady (I call her "Cath") and Activia Jamie Lee in the poor house?  Don't screw with my favorite network.  I need my Dr. G fix and can't afford to fly down to Florida each week to watch her work in person.  I've got Medical Mysteries to solve and Life in the ER to live (there are Untold Stories in there yet to tell, I hear ... er, tell).   This concerns me greatly.

Oh well, that's a couple of years from now.  Be kind to us, oh great and powerful 'O'.  Oprah, perhaps more even than the Most Interesting Man, represents the true embodiment of Kris Kringle - new cars for everyone!  Oprah Claus.  All I want for Christmas, Dear Oprah Claus, is that you take pity on my fav Discovery Health shows and allow them to live on when your network takes over.

And with that ...


RUN-DMC - Christmas In Hollis (Official Music Video) - Click here for more free videos

"She feeds you Tea and Oranges that come all the way from China" - L. Cohen, 1967

Man, I tell ya - people are blastin' Obama for bowing to the Japanese Emperor.  Come on!  Are we really as a country that stuffed full of Ugly Americans who find any gesture besides an arrogant sneer to be a sign of weakness?  Sadly, it seems that we are.  In fact, in some circles they're calling the bow an "act of treason."  Clearly.  What ever happened to "walk softly and carry a big stick"?  A little sign of respect goes a helluva long way, but there's no convincing those whose diplomatic philosophy is forged through years of study at the feet of Ambassadors John Rambo and Lone Wolf McQuade. Our former president (and vice president and UN ambassador) were strident believers in this school of "thought".

Besides, Japan isn't our new overlord, China is.  We'll really be seeing some bowing in the days ahead.  Given our massive debt to the Red Horde, Barack just might have to turn around and bow in the other direction ("bring out the gimp").  We owe them close to a trillion dollars and I don't imagine playing on their commie sympathies will do the trick ("Oh, debt is so bourgeoisie, Mr. Chairman.  Let's just call it square - you know, between us socialists - wink, wink!").  As Paulie said in Goodfellas, "Fuck you, pay me." 

All this makes it somewhat difficult to point out China's atrocious human rights record when we should be shoving their face in it like a bad doggie who keeps shitting on the carpet.  I'm assuming this is the reason we've been so quiet since ... well, many a moon.  And perhaps why Obama gave the Hello Dalai Lama the cold shoulder recently.  Last I checked, we didn't owe him any money (I don't think he has it to lend).   Oh, well.  You get into bed with the sharks, ya gotta deal with the consequences.

Proving that 'Ugly Americans' don't have to be bad looking, the Ice Queen of the Midnight Sun is jingo jangling her spurs into a gallop as the Going Rouge book tour blazes into a town near you this week. Hillary was yakking on the Sunday talk shows that she'd look forward to coffee with her baked Alaskan sister sometime soon - I smell a View episode for the ages!  Or maybe something a bit more juicy on Jerry Springer.

Wolf Blitzer let us know today that "the best political team on television" was closely following Sarah Mania II.  He added, "Candy Crowley has the book and is reading it as we speak."   Thanks, Wolf.  Good to hear Candy's calling all her exclusive Washington inside sources for the real skinny. She got the book a day early!  I hope she underlines the good parts.  I half expected Wolf to then pause for half a beat followed by the distinctive sound of a toilet flushing off-camera. Ba-Dum.  Rim Shot.  Then Wolf with a sly smile: "Sounds like Candy's finished the book and we'll have her into the situation room for her analysis as soon as she washes her hands." 

But Wolf has about as much of a sense of humor as my lint brush, which makes him funny quite often, but never intentionally.  Don't you go changin', Wolfie.

Look what the Bug Dragged In

Creeping Jesus, I'm sick.  I spent most of the day attempting to get out of bed and the last few hours trying to eat the same little dish of Jello (unsuccessfully).  I've finally gotten to the point where I can concentrate enough to both sit up without tossing my cookies while at the same time typing legible sentences (well, as legible as they usually are anyway).  I should take this magic act on the road (were it not for the fact that when I attempt to stand erect, said cookies are tossed like salad).   Not sure why I'm updating this infernal albatross of a blog.  It's like a nervous tick. I guess it keeps my mind off the nausea and fever.

I missed a friend's wedding today thanks to this bug.  Shit.  After I went to the effort last month to buy a new suit for the occasion. (When I got the invitation, I went hunting for my then-"current" garb and discovered that it must had passed on to its great reward earlier in the year, the victim of a terminal case of mildew.)  

Oh, well.  I'm set for the next wedding and/or funeral that might head my way.  In the end, it was probably for the best I didn't try and drag myself to the nuptials (besides getting the congregation sick, I don't imagine Mike or Greta would have appreciated one of their guests heaving on the wedding cake; would make a great story a few years down the road but might put a damper on the day viewed in present tense).

I notice when I'm sick that my unfortunate tendency to use parentheses in sentences is accentuated.  I'm not sure how I became aware of that (or if it's even true ... he says safely tucked within parens). 

Time to go lay back down, the light's starting to get too bright and I really can't concentrate on attempting to make this post at all humorous or otherwise interesting ... Like as not I'll be tossing this - or perhaps simply slap a warning sticker screaming "Caution: written for author's therapeutic purposes only.  Dense concentration of whining." 

Here's to feeling better tomorrow, cause I can't imagine feeling worse.