Man, some people get so pissed off at other people's opinions. As you have all been informed at one time or another, I like to come here and get my groove on while in the real world, I tend to write slightly more sedate opinion columns. Sometimes, what goes here is just a dirtier version of what I do "out there."
One such case was my "Fuck the French" column in which I decried all things French. In the real world, I called it "Who needs the French anyway?" It is hard for me to tell which is the satire and which is genuine.
ANYWHO, this spastic colon of a human being got all pissed of in one of the nearby small towns where my column is syndicated. She has gone on a tear. She sent a ltter to the Shenandoah paper, she sent it to my paper in Council Bluffs. She has threatened to send my column and her letter to Le Monde and she sent a copy of her letter and my column to the publisher of the Omaha World Herald. My paper is owned by the same company as the OWH, so stupid people often think that they can get me in trouble by "going straight to the top." Well over half the staff of the Omaha World Herald comes from Iowa, many of those people are former Iowa State Daily and ISU alums.
Any way, this crazy bitch just made sure I am on the radar of a much bigger paper when that publisher called me up to tell me he would personally pay the shipping on that fed ex package and that I was right on the money. THANKS Ms. Dumb Ass!
Anyway, here is her letterletter which is more or less a response to what was here. Feel free to leave some feedback on the letter when you are done. Just don't swear at all or they won't run it.
When I retreated South for the winter, I thought I'd escaped the ridiculous amounts of snow and the frigid cold of NYC. Little did I know that it'd be hot on my trails. So far, I've been so ankle-deep in snow that I'm beginning to think I should go back for at least the amusement factor of snickering at the scenery of Times Square's latest tourism traps and watching the travesty going up in my old 'hood. Or at the very least fuel up my dating life with a little less gettin'-on-my-nerves and a little more loosening up my nerves. Ah, good times, good times.
It's been snowing for two days straight now. I was on my way home from the university library, (one of the few places still open to escape cabin fever--where has my life gone?!?!), chain-smoking and trying to keep my terrorist-supporting SUV from doing the twist, when the inevitable happened. You see, my terrorist-upping vehicle wasn't the only one that couldn't keep the James Brown out of its slick wheels. Right into my bumper came the little red Audi TT as it struggled to come to a stop at the light.
Who dares bump my terrorist mobile?!?! I lit up and got out of the car to wage my own little war.
But how could I when the little red Audi that could, did? From it came such a hottie as I've not spotted since I left the city that my rage fleeted and a blush sprang to my cheeky cheeks. He was awfully nice, awfully hot, and even offered me one of his own ciggies as I was just putting my eleventh one of the quarter hour out. I took it and we shared a smoke while exchanging information and talking about how bad the weather's been.
"I came down here for a warm winter, and this is what I get," I said, rolling my eyes, which led to a convo about him being from Boston and me being from NYC. Which led to a more convo about how much we miss our respective cities. Which led to him inviting me to join him and his friends for drinks at a local bar that used to feature the Dave Matthews band before he
sold out got big. Which led to me nonchalantly, but not too nonchalantly, accepting, while deep down thinking how retarded I felt for being all about going drinking at an ass-backward bar where yesterday's alternative bands used to play. Yay me!
Lucky for him, my terrorist mobile came out of it with only a scratch and lucky for me, I am going to meet hot boy with hopefully more hot boy and girl friends for some hot drinks. Hot!
In my quasi-managerial capacity I've had the opportunity to interview an applicant or two. Thus I feel qualifed to dispense advice to any job-seekers out there.
It's critical to establish immediate rapport with your interviewer, otherwise they'll just grow bored with you. One way to go about this is to make derisive cracks about their attire. Call it out-of-style, overly revealing or simply hideous. Another approach is to pry into their personal affairs. Raise pointed questions about their chosen lifestyles and/or parenting skills.
Honesty and integrity are traits valued by today's conscientious slave-driver. Be brutally candid about your disdain for corporate money-grubbing and chicanery. Share your ethical concerns about doing the company's cruel bidding.
The ADA prohibits discrimination based upon mental handicaps. So don't hesitate to reveal your history of nervous breakdowns, outbursts of violence and what medication regimen you use to keep your raging demons at bay. But don't overdo it with the frank disclosures. Get all evasive when it comes to gaps in employment, academic performance and periods of incarceration. When pressed, cite national security concerns and steer the discussion back to your terrorist ties.
Bear in mind that you're just one among many unqualified applicants. So it pays to stand out from the crowd. Don garb more appropriate to a whorehouse, hoedown or Muslim prayer service. (I must warn you not to click on the link about Israeli soldiers harvesting Palestinian organs for resale.)
Proper grooming is an absolute must. If you're male, sport that scruffy, unshaven look popularized by Don Johnson. If you're female, go with Jennifer Aniston's so-five-minutes-ago sheepdog look. Applicants of all genders should mask their stench with aromatic oils. This combo will imply a carefree flippancy, which is a highly prized trait among today's employers.
Should the job entail contact with children, profess to love the little buggers, but not "in a Michael Jackson kind of way." Regardless of what position you seek, make every effort to ensure your interview is with a member of the opposite sex. To foster an intimate atmosphere, plop yourself down in his or her lap. Things can only go uphill from there.
Remember, the purpose of an interview is for you to glean as much information as possible about benefits, perks and health insurance. Don't neglect to determine how many domestic partners the company allows you to stack on your policy. Ditto for its precise criteria in separating domestic partners from whores you shack up with from time to time.
Above all, leave your cell phone on. You wouldn't want to risk missing an all-important call over some silly job interview.
Dude, you're all but a shoo-in.
Sorry I’ve been so quite of late. Haven’t had much to say, or much time to say it.
Been very busy recently with classes, work, and oggling pictures of Tatu. What time I have had to devote to BS recently has been spent doing a lot of things on the backside that I’ve let slip for the past couple months. For example, I’m finally getting around to working on a new design. This one has certainly worn out it’s welcome with me, and I’m feeling the need for change. I’ve been toying around with something like this. What’d you all think?
In other news, the mystery poster from last week is now bonafide, and will be joining the already wonderful staff shortly. Things have been going swimmingly recently, so what better thing can I do than fuck it all up by throwing off the delicate balance that’s been working so damn well recently? As a matter of fact, I think it’s about time to put out another open casting call for authors.
What does it say about your life when noticing that a bag of Ramen Noodles is technically two servings and, for more than just a brief moment, it makes you feel all giddy and decadent that your dinner would feed two normal people but you are sitting down to devour it all by yourself?
Word has it we're supposed to boycott French and German products. Which means we'll have to give up such delicacies as slugs slathered in garlic sauce. But as an avid student o' human nature I wonder if this applies to the works of Nietzsche and Voltaire, both of whom romanticized primitive cultures.
Boycott or no, I'd have to agree. Cro-Magnon Man didn't need to trouble himself with naked chicks for peace. Nor did he have to deal with sixteen straight mind-numbing nights of I'm A Celebrity, Get Me Out Of Here. Dating rituals were simpler too, consisting of clobbering rivals over their noggins and making off with their womenfolk. Thus Cro-Magnon Woman didn't have to choose between the moody, brooding artiste and the muscle-bound hunk. Whoever won the fight garnered her favor.
My half-brother Lenny might as well be a primitive, for all his immersion in the modern world. Back in the mid-Sixties he and his cohorts used to dole out legal acid to unsuspecting college students. He knew Ken Kesey and his Merry Pranksters personally, to say nothing of the Manson Family.
By 1972 they'd fled Haight-Ashbury to occupy abandoned houses in Topanga Canyon. They'd figured out how to tap into utilities for free. Commerce was conducted on the barter system. They'd help make ends meet by panning for gold or carving jade figurines. Life was good.
I first met Lenny when I was seven. After a run-in with California authorities, he showed up on our doorstep with suitcase in hand. My mom had no knowledge of him. Dad had some major 'splaining to do.
Many years later he took up residence in our country home. He got run out of town after the local sheriff grew suspicious of his "crops."
Now he lives alone on the Monterrey Peninsula. Since his mom owns a seedy apartment complex, rent is free. All those years of abuse have left him befuddled and shaking like a leaf.
Yet he's still capable of incredibly profound insights. This was in evidence when we visited him during San Francisco's last earthquake. Aftershocks sent dishes clattering to the floor. Once these subsided, he had this to say while stroking his scrawny cat: "Man, that was a doozey."
To his credit, Lenny does work. He tends to the hedgerows and lawns of the Hollywood elite's vacation homes in nearby Carmel. For whatever reason, many famous folks have given him a spare key to their spreads. That's how he does his laundry, in their houses. Yes, my dazed brother washes his clothes in the same machines as some of your favorite stars!
I haven't seen or heard from Lenny since the earthquake debacle. He is dead to me.
Well, I've got to go stock up on French wine.
Bad Sam celebrated a couple numerological milestones recently. The first, which happened sometime last week, was breaking 750,000 unique visits. It was around last year at this time when we hit 250K. That means traffic this past year doubled the traffic from the year and a half before it. And I thought those were pretty damned impressive numbers at the time.
The second milestone, which happened sometime yesterday, was breaking 2,000,000 total pages views. This isn’t nearly as big a deal, but 2,000,000 of anything, no matter what, is pretty impressive. Like, if I said I just ran a batch, it wouldn’t be that remarkable, but if I told you I just sent 2,000,000 million spermies to a watery grave, well, that’d be something to have a parade about.
Two and a half years ago, when I started this site and struggled in the relative obscurity of single digit hits for months, I secretly hoped for this kind of success. But little did I ever imagine that things ever get so damn big.
And, if you think I’m all about hits, I think I’ve calmed down about all that since my hit whoring days. In fact, I didn’t even notice that we were coming up on ¾ of a million visits until after the fact. I’ve been much more aware of the amazing quality and range of discussion around here recently. It’s one thing to get a flood of people stopping by, its quite another to have them stay and become the kind of “super commenter” we’ve been so blessed to find in all of you.
Thanks so much.
The next big numerological events will be 1,000,000 unique visits, and 10,000 comments, which, if things progress like they have been, should happen sometime this summer. Now, that will be something I’ll make a big deal about when it rolls around, maybe a party. Anyone want to visit NYC sometime in July/August?
Jaws was on TV this weekend. Most people consider it one of the greatest movies of all time, and it's always been high on my list. I even saw Jaws 3D at the theater. Though, watching the original again now I noticed that, outside of Richard Dreyfuss and Roy Scheider, Jaws contained some of the worst acting ever committed to film. But, so, this isn't about Jaws, but about an entirely different Great White, one responsible for more deaths than the big fish caused in the entire series of movies.
By now you must have heard about the fire in Rhode Island. Ninety-seven people died as a result of the pyrotechnics at a Great White show. Another 160 people were injured, half of which are still in hospital, some still in critical condition. This story never quite reached the critical mass of media hype surrounding the Columbia Crash, but none of 97 people who died Rhode Island were "heroes," they were just normal people expecting nothing more than a night of music and cheap beer.
Now, for some reason, this all hit me harder than the Columbia thing, which didn't hit me at all. Maybe its simply because being burned alive is no doubt the worst way to go. I remember all the times I've burned myself - the pain from brushing against a hot iron, scalding water, or a firecracker thrown too late. And then I think about being consumed by fire, and it is just impossible to imagine knowing that you are going to die and your last moments will be spent in the worst pain you could ever know.
I could survive and be happy even as a paraplegic, but the pain of fourth degree burns stay with you for months, the scars forever. I’m not even sure I’d want to live through that.
The closest I’ve ever come to death came when I was much younger. I was in pool and had wandered a little too far into the deep end. I’d never been a good swimmer, and I panicked. My short life didn’t clichély flash before my eyes, but I was sure I was going to die. I blacked out and woke up outside of the pool, the lifeguard having jumped in to save me. That experience has kept me scared of water to this day, but at least, besides for the panic, there was no pain. I’ve since read that drowning victims experience a moment of euphoria before they die, as their brain runs out of oxygen. No such benefit with being burned alive.
The truly sad thing about what happened in Rhode Island isn't that Great White are still touring. Or that 300 are willing to pay 15 bucks to listen to a band that hasn't released a relevant record since Saddam Hussein and Osama bin Laden were friends of the United States. No, the saddest thing is that this tragedy was completely preventable.
If there were no pyrotechnics, there’d have been no fire. If the club had installed a sprinkler system, the fire would have been put out in seconds. If people had behaved reasonable and not stampeded out, everyone could have made it alive. There is video from that night that actually shows people wedged in the door, unable to move, like something out of a Three Stooges movie. Reports have said that most of the nearly hundred bodies were found only feet from the door.
Here we are still sitting in Orange Alert, and waiting for impending death. With the Rhode Island fire, the stampede at Chicago club earlier in the week, and a smaller fire at a club here in New York over the weekend, it’s getting so we can’t even go out to see some bad 80s hair metal band without fearing for our lives. But I say enough. I will never purchase another roll of duct tape, immediately break out my mirror and razor blade if I get a white powdery substance in the mail, get in a cab whether the driver is black OR middle eastern. The Scorpions, Dokken, and Whitesnake will all be in town next month; anyone want to join me?
Yesterday was one of the most taxing days of my life. In the middle of repairing our disposal it comes to my attention that the basement is flooded in multiple areas. Water was bubbling up from gaping cracks in the foundation when it wasn’t seeping through the walls. We spent eight hours toiling away with quick-dry cement, a trowel, a wet/dry vacuum and a broom. It’s amazing how fast you become an accomplished mason when under pressure.
Needless to say, I turned in early. My fitful slumber was interrupted by the Foo Fighters performing on Saturday Night Live. They were playing a kick-ass number with a hook that went something like this, “In times like these, we learn how to live again. In times like these, we learn how to love again. And again.” While I presumed this to be a post-Sept 11 reference, it struck me that it could jut as readily apply to our present situation here at the House of Anna in shambles. Folks really do pull together in times of full-blown crisis, or at least we have.
Unfortunately, I was plagued by a dread of Sunday’s predicted thunderstorms. I couldn’t get back to sleep to save my life. So I log onto this site. Lo and behold, 16 users online even at this ungodly hour. I was reminded that MG once mentioned how Bad Sam attracts 1,500 unique hits per day. Dude, that’s a lot of traffic. Which got me to wondering why the majority of visitors seem to leave without a peep. (Not that there’s anything wrong with that.)
Well, I for one would really like to hear feedback from some of y’all. Which isn’t to say I don’t enjoy and welcome the regulars’ commentary, when it comes; just that it would be cool to hear what these others folks have on their minds as well. Think of it as open mike night, only without the god-awful comics, jeers and produce-hurling.
Posting comments is free, easy and good clean fun to boot. Plus you leave your indelible mark on the Internet which is the next best thing to being a losing contestant on Fear Factor. Now I realize some readers may be slacking @ work and thus fearful of detection. I know I’d be afraid to post a comment at my job. However, to quote Mr. Blank’s advice to Linz: *In the preferences of your web browser just empty the internet cash files and clear the history. Then don't have the comments form remember your information so no cookies are created. Bad Sam without a trace of evidence.* Ha!
I’ve suggested a few talking points below, but feel free to deviate, digress or whatever might strike your fancy. Pontificate, complain or wallow in self-defeat. Hell, say anything you please.
That said, let’s have your take on any of the following topics: 1) A recent Illinois Supreme Court ruling that will require sex offenders as young as 12 to register as sexual predators for the rest of their lives. 2) Masturbation, faked orgasms, porno and their role in promoting long-term relationships. 3) Whether, in the grand scheme of things, it really matters if Richard Gere ever shoved a gerbil up his ass. 4) Worst pickup lines you’ve ever heard or used. 5) Guys: Do you enjoy watching zesty lesbian action? Gals: Do you relish zesty guy-on-guy action? 6) Whether you feel phrases like *more cushion for the pushin’* and *pearl necklace* and *who’s your daddy* are degrading to women. 7) Legalized harems as a solution to America’s soaring divorce 8) The effect of roofies on college dating rituals and its corollary, Date Rape Etiquette. 9) Your thoughts on that Chicago woman who thwarted her rapist’s plans by daintily gnawing off his wiener. 10) Your thoughts on post-mortem lovin’ or morning quickies. 11) If humanity were annihilated and all that remained was its smut-strewn Net, what kind of impression would it leave on visiting aliens? 12) Titty rings.
I could go on but I'd best get back to bailing. It's like Noah's Ark around here.
You know how when you're hanging from a belt in your closet spanking it and trying to finish right on the edge of passing out? Cross the line and you're dead, but the closer you get the better it feels? You've got ecstacy in one hand and the fear of humiliating death in the other. Doesn't that suck? Who's with me? Yeah! Show of hands... let's go!
Lately, I have given up on the strip club scene. I know, what is the world coming to. But health reasons and money reasons and social reasons and maybe even moral reasons have kept from indulging in the pleasures of the flesh.
What happened was I when to an all nude joint about an hour away where the girls were acutally cool and now I can't even think about hanging round some of the snooty, fully clothed ho-bags at my local strip club.
I get too bored too easily even where women are concerned. I need variety. I need conversation. I don't think it is too much to ask that when I go into a strip club that there be a sexually charged atmosphere. I don't need to be somebody's friend.
Now come to find out, the girls at my current club think I'm rich. Being bitches of the dim-witted variety, they assume that because I am a newspaper columnist that I must be rich. They think I make 65K a year and wonder why I dont tip more. I just got a raise today. 35 cents. They don't give 35 cent raises to people who make 65k. They give raises like that to puds like me who are barely scraping by and if they don't like it they can fuck off.
A friend of mine, well, a person I know, is involved in the swinging lifestyle. It is not as cool as it sounds. Mostly, it is people of very mundane appearance with sexual adictions have sex with strangers in public places and groups of acquantainces engaging in behavior, I think it is safe to say, the average person would find morally repugnant if they were being honest with themselves. I cannot see the satisfaction in a lifestyle like that. Sure, it has the thin patina of excitement on an othwise clean, boring little life, but is that really enough? It sounds like the male fantasy rightly enough, but in practical terms I can see it leaving me cold, unfulfilled and ashamed.
Eveyone has a hole inside of them. They fill it with whatever seems to work. Food, sex, shopping, alcohol. Doesnt really matter. Ultimately, I wonder if the hole is really a area of limited space or if it isnt really a doorway to an infinite space inside us. We just temporarily jam the doorway up with diversions. Eventually they fall through and we are hungry again. A deep and abiding love might be the only thing that can fill that space.
A few years back, a religious group advocated a diet plan that included prayer. At the time, I thought it was a joke until I realized they were right, at least partially. When they spoke of filling the void with Jesus, they could have been talking about filling the void with a hobby or some other kind of activity one can partcipate in religiously.
Makes you think.
What fills you up inside? Do you even know that you are empty? Are you filled? If so what worked for you? For me a combination of pizza, diet pop and anti depressants works for a short time.
Reason #1, why I love the F train: Because it takes me from Broadway to 74th Street / Roosevelt Avenue in 20 f’ing minutes – faster than a cab, and for a very reasonable $1.50.
Reason #2, why I love the F train: because “F” is a polite, and FCC friendly, way of saying “fuck.”
I’ve realized, since I’ve had to plumb the depths of the BS archives in search of the “On this Day” entries, that I’ve gone from talking about the events in my life, to talking solely about how I feel about life. Considering that the lovely Linz can garner 20something comments simply discussing her drive along an interstate, I wonder maybe if I’ve taken a wrong turn somewhere myself. It isn’t just comment envy, but sure, that plays a part. It’s more a, “I’ve shared so much with you all, why I have I stopped sharing so much?”
And, of course, these feelings well up inside me might be because I’m drunk. Okay, I’m not really drunk. Just sort of happy. And really, who doesn’t deserve to be happy? Happy is such a basic human need that even those old fucks who wrote the constitution felt it necessary to proclaim that all men were guaranteed their pursuit of it. Although, I’m sure they didn’t have $3 Yuenglings in mind when they wrote that.
At any rate, I’m happy.
The one and only Eviltom and I hit the Bowery Poetry Club tonight for an evening of culture, and poems about pussy. I’ve been to the BPC four times in the last couple months, other poetry venues before that, and none has compared to tonight. Sure, there were the requisite number of naïve political poems, but I hardly had to roll my eyes at the simplistic worldview of “Bush bad. Peace good” pieces.
Maybe it was that the stars were in perfectly alignment, or that four of the five slam contestants were female, or possibly the fact I’ve not gone out drinking in what seems like ages, but this night was as close to perfect as possible, even considering there was no one waiting for me in bed when I came home.
Still, a night of spoken word always leaves me with the feeling like I should be doing… something. Anything. It doesn't matter what, as long as it's more than I’m doing now. Which is really strange considering that on any given day, more people are reading the crap that I am writing here then will ever hear any one of those poets tonight in their entire fucking careers.
Yet. Still. I don’t know.
This post is bad. Seriously. I shouldn’t post when drunk, or happy, or tired. But, in case you missed the oh so subtle clues, I’m waiting for a deluge of comments saying things along the lines of “No, MG, you aren’t wasting your life,” and “Even if it isn’t poetry, I still like your website,” and “Oh, you are so pretty” and "Your breathe, it is as fresh as an Alpine breeze." Stuff like that. So, let the praise commence.
e·vil ( P ) Pronunciation Key (vl)
adj. e·vil·er, e·vil·est
Morally bad or wrong; wicked: an evil tyrant.
Causing ruin, injury, or pain; harmful: the evil effects of a poor diet.
Characterized by or indicating future misfortune; ominous: evil omens.
Bad or blameworthy by report; infamous: an evil reputation.
Characterized by anger or spite; malicious: an evil temper.
One hears much banter about evil these days. President Bush has his "axis of eveil" and vows to hunt down "evildoers." Like Elvis sitings, evil is everywhere. The term is bandied about so often it's lost all meaning.
Aside from those wacky moral relativists, we'd all agree that evil exists. Osama and his hateful, amoral ilk are evil incarnate. But what about Taliban honcho Mullah Omar? His interpretation of Islamic tenets is a bit harsh, but does that make him evil? Consider that he once took a scrap of shrapnel in his eye. He wrenched his eyeball from its socket and continued battling the Soviets. Only one picture of him is thought to exist. This shows that he's got the courage of his convictions.
Hitler was evil and an inept painter to boot, but what about his cohort Mussolini? Yes, he had that fascism thing going on. But who know what that means anymore? It's another term that's been leached of its meaning by overuse, like "tragedy." Plus, trains ran on time under his regime.
It used to be fashionable to brand Heaven's Gate leader Do as evil. After all, he lopped off his own nuts and encouraged others to follow suit. Then he lured his followers into a mass suicide pact. Evil? Nobody coerced them into joining his stupid cult.
Nowadays pundits call Saddam evil, and perhaps he is. Yet I can hardly suppress a chuckle whenever CNN shows those shots of him firing his rifle one-handed or brandishing that silly sword of his. It's going to take a helluva lot more than that to project a defiant, tough guy image. Same goes for those Korean soldiers goose-stepping along with their missiles in tow. It looks no less absurd than Bill Clinton wagging his finger at the American public back in '98.
Right-wingers hung the evil label on him for accepting hummers while conducting national affairs. Yet JFK did the exact same thing and he's practically considered a saint. And speaking of carnal knowledge, few would consign pornographers to the evil bin. However, I'd draw the line at sites that depict mule-on-teen or post-mortem lovin' action.
Likewise, if it's true this chick ate Girly Chew Hossencroft to conceal evidence, surely she'd qualify for the pantheon of evil.
Then you've got those double-dealing slicksters of Enron and WorldCom. They'll live out their days in the lap of luxury whilst their employees huddle on steam grates. And what about rent-a-guitar-legend Carlos Santana making a bundle slumming with today's heartthrobs? Or my bud Paul, who shoved his fiancee's face in a steamy pile of dogshit? (I swear his favorite pickup line was, "So, do you still have that picture of my dick on your nightstand?")
So who's truly wicked? Let he who is without sin cast the first stone.
There are lots of important things going on in the world. This isn’t about any of them.
Sure, I could talk about the never beginning, but constantly impending war on Iraq. And really, if anyone was stupid enough to get me started on the subject, I could rant for hours. It’s so bad that I have to bite my lip on a daily basis to stop myself from jumping into the conversations of the ridiculous lefty types I constantly overhear espousing their ridiculous beliefs on the subway, in line at bagel shop, and wandering around the Gap. If those Gallup people decided to give me a call, well, that’s one pole I wouldn’t mind taking all eight inches of.
To tell the truth, as much as I could talk politics endlessly, I don’t really want to; I’d rather talk porn, and why everyone is doing it but me. Now, despite what you may think, I’m not a huge purveyor of pornography. Like sex, drugs, and long distance telephone calls, I believe porn is one of those things you shouldn’t have to pay for. I’ll take what I can find for free, and with a minimal amount of effort, otherwise I don’t bother.
As a kid the best I could find was a rained on (oh god I hope that was rain) copy of some nudie magazine found literally in the gutter near my house. I didn’t have a big brother, and none of my friends did either, so found porn is all we knew, and we were damn happy for it.
But, the Internet, ah the glorious Internet, changed everything. Nowadays, you can stream hours of video into your home to satisfy every damn sexual perversion you might possibly have. Pornography is everywhere and everyone is doing it. Forget the parade of strippers through the Howard Stern Show. Forget big name stars like Pam and Tommy Lee, Rob Lowe, and R. Kelly shooting videos of their own. Forget the myriad of female celebrities who’ve tried to reinvigorate their career’s with a spread (literally) in Playboy (I’m looking at you Tiffany.) Forget the cadres of 14 year-old cam whores showing off their pre-pubescent wares for items of their Amazon wishlist (if only I could).
No, porn is so prevalent that average, ordinary people are getting into getting got in to (<ed note>I love that sentence</ed note>). Well, at least if you consider reality TV contestants average and ordinary. Of course, everyone knows that bitch Jerry from Survivor 2 (and more recently from The Surreal Life), spread them for Playboy. A few weeks ago, then Joe Millionaire finalist Sarah Kozer was discovered to have appeared in a series of bondage and foot fetish movies. Last week, American Idol semi-finalist Frenchie Davis was booted from the show because she appeared topless (and apparently masturbating) on a website called "Daddy's Little Girls."
And these are just the two we know about! I’ve no doubt several of those Bachelorette guys have appeared in bathhouse movies. Or that when the ladies get back from the Guys vs. Gals Survivor, more than one of them will be starring in a munching video. Two of the men on High School Reunion streaked naked last week. And who can erase the image of Richard Hatch dancing around naked on the original Survivor?
Seems everyone is getting naked and taking pictures (because it’ll last longer). Is this a sign that Americans are finally getting over the Puritan value system that founded this country and we are all coming to realize that sex isn’t an awful, sinful, dirty thing? Or is this a decent into late Roman Empire bacchanalia? Either way, I know I’m enjoying it.
MG suggested to me that there should be an American Idol Drinking Game. Of course there should. There probably is one already, you know how things are on the Internet these days. I told him this, but he said no, he couldn't find one. Strange. MG suggested that I write one up, being that I'm such a big fan of the show. Well, what a fine fucking idea! So here it is, the American Idol Drinking Game:
At the start of the show, shove aside the mix of semi-dirty and grungy-dirty clothes on your futon. Sit down, relax. Pour yourself a drink because it's American Idol time. You've been looking forward to this all day, fuck, all week, I mean, it's the only thing that gets you through the workday on Mondays and Tuesdays and you even tell your friends over IM and they tell you to get a life, but fuck them, what do they know.
When Ryan Seacrest walks out to open the show, take a chug. When he introduces the judges, take a sip for each judge. If seeing Paula Abdul reminds you of her video from way back where she's dancing around with a hip cartoon cat and if that reminds you of being in sixth grade, specifically, that day in band class when the girls huddled and talked about music videos while the boys tried to ignore them with a too-cool air, who were the boys kidding, only themselves, because they wanted more than anything to talk to the girls and you wanted more than anything to talk to the blonde-haired girl in the clarinet section, but anyway, if seeing Paula Abdul reminds you of this, take an extra gulp. If it doesn't, take an extra sip.
Now on to the contestants: For every female contestant, take a sip. If you like her performance, take another sip. If you like her outfit and if it's tight-fitting and if you could almost picture what her breasts would look like if she were naked and if it makes you wish that you had a girlfriend that pretty, heck, if you had a girlfriend at all, fuck it if she's not as hot as an American Idol contestant, if she'll so much as be your girlfriend and watch TV with you and maybe hold your hand sometime, that's pretty damn good already and you'll take that any day, so take another sip, no, chug it. Chug the rest of your glass. Why not, remember, you're alone, so who's around to care what you chug and when. Don't say loneliness doesn't have its advantages. For every male contestant, don't do anything, except if seeing any of them makes you wish you had even a droplet of their good looks, so then maybe some girl somewhere would like you, then take a sip. If seeing any of the male contestants makes you hot and bothered, take a note to work this out with your therapist.
During the judging segment, every time Randy says "dawg," you say "dawg" too. Every time Randy says "dude," you say "dude" too. Hey, this might sound stupid now, but it's fucking fun as heck when you're sloshed. Every time Randy says "that was just okay, nothing great," try not to think of your parents and how they never really approved of anything you did even though secretly, you wanted more than anything else for them to be proud of you. Try not to think of this of this because it'll make you sad, and let me tell you, there's nothing sadder than a sad, lonely drunk. If Simon hates the performance, take a sip. If Simon likes the performance, take a gulp. If Paula likes the performance, close your eyes and try to imagine that she just complemented you, not the contestant, and that one day, maybe, some girl will compliment you in real life, but don't hold your breath. Take a sip. If Paula hates the performance, then chug.
At the end of the show, go ahead and chug whatever you have left, I mean, what's the point of saving it. It's only 9pm on a Tuesday night. What now? Consider your options: (1) cry. (2) hmmm, actually, your only option at this point is to cry. When you've cried yourself out, roll into bed and remind you that tomorrow is the results show. Yay!
Snowbound for days, I’ve learned the meaning of the term “stir-crazy.” Now were this Siberia, people would shrug it off and set about their mundane, frostbitten lives. But this is far from Siberia. Even flurries constitute Big News here, while a doozey of a storm preempts all other developments. Terrorists could strike anew and they’d take a back seat to school closings, cancelled events, canned shots of cars mired in snow-banks and oft-repeated warnings about the dangers of black ice.
Call it the anti-news. The traffic reporter comes on to report that roads remain deserted. The weatherman says the torrent has tapered off at last, but emphasizes that THERE IS STILL A LOT OF SNOW ON THE GROUND. VENTURE OUTDOORS AT YOUR OWN PERIL. Viewers need TV to tell them what a peek out their window would confirm. Seriously though, it sure is a hoot to hear media droning on and on about what isn’t happening.
Which brings up another matter that’s been gnawing at me of late, namely antimatter. Esoteric science irks me to no end, mainly because my feeble brain can’t begin to comprehend it. When eggheads announced that they’d photographed the birth of the universe, for example, it left me baffled. I guess I’m unable to grasp this whole space-time continuum notion. Same goes for cloning and artificial intelligence. Oh sure, I more or less understand the cloning concept; it’s just that I remain flummoxed by the logistics involved. And if artificial intelligence is here, can artificial stupidity be far behind?
Still, of all the scary developments on the scientific front, I find antimatter the most disquieting. Like black holes, this creepy parallel non-universe brainy people claim is or isn’t out there plain creeps me out. Think about it: When physicists isolate some of this weird non-stuff, what do they have/lack? Not nothing as in a vacuum, but less than zero. It follows that each morsel of antimatter must have its own counterpart here in the more familiar physical realm. In the anti-world, you’ve got anti-ant colonies, anti-anteaters, anti-antipasto, anti-antacids and anti-antiwar banners. Anti-blogs bereft of content, comments and graphics. You click on the link and it kicks you offline.
Unless you happen to be well versed in the vagaries of astronomy, genetics, computer code or physics, you kind of have to take these experts at their word. With all their gadgetry, astronomers really can time-travel. Human cloning and artificial intelligence are realities sure to further complicate our M-lives. Antimatter exists. Or should I say, it doesn’t.
I’m so confused.
In one of the great ironies of my life I hate the cold but love snow. New York got about 20 inches (oh baby!) over the last couple days. It was still coming down as I was out wandering the streets taking pictures this morning.
With nearly 2 feet of snow on the ground, and classes cancelled for me tonight, why did I bother to leave bed? Well, I’m bored senseless. So, I went out, braved the weather, enjoyed the snow, and took a couple pictures. Here they are:
Outside my front door is this tree that I love it so much. Despite seeing it every day, I also use it as the desktop on my computer. The snow in the crevices of the bark and along the ivy, just struck me as very pretty.
The absolute best thing about getting tons of snow in New York City is that you get to jaywalk without threat of death. One of my earliest memories as a child was walking down the center of Northern Boulevard, a busy six-lane street near my house, and not seeing a single car on the road. I’m always reminded of that every time it snows.
You can’t really tell, but this dog is wearing a sweater. Not a doggie sweater, but a straight out of Kurt Kobain’s estate sale cardigan sweater. I took a couple pictures but the stupid dog kept moving. I only included this one at all because you can see his butt. Dog butt is funny.
Some people wear their hearts on their sleeves. Other people wear their heart balloons on their trees.
That’s a VW Beetle underneath all that snow. I guess the dome really is a feat of architecture.
About a fifteen years ago the New York City Board of Education decided to combine Lincoln and Washington’s birthdays into one week long holiday. This was done mostly as a way to save money, because they couldn’t afford to pay teachers. The Board could turn off the heat in all the city school buildings for that week, and just tack the extra days onto the end of the school year. The only reason I bring it up is because this is President’s week. Two feet of school would surely have closed schools yesterday and today (and maybe even tomorrow), which means New York’s children got ripped off.
A decade ago, I’d be one of those kids, pissed off so bad I’d spend my week off causing vast amounts of property damage. Now, I just laugh, and appreciate my day off.
I am not an entirely random stranger to the people on this site. Some have actually seen me naked — right CHAR? — and while what I think about war with Iraq might not have the weight of say a Colin Powel or even a community college poli sci teacher, I do have some insight into irreconcilable differences.
There is one thing I do on a regular basis that might be of use to the folks here.
Any time you have two disparate seemingly unresolvable sides to an argument (like abortion) and neither side can possible win 100 percent, realize that neither side can possibly win because both sides have valid points. I am pro-choice, but I do have to admit there is something wrong with abortion. It IS distasteful, it might well be immoral and the same reasons I think women should make up their own minds about abortion are the same reasons why others think we should stop allowing abortions ie the uncertainty of when life starts. That is for another time.
Now, I know what you're thinking, what kind of hoodoo guru, lovey dovey shit is this from a guy who is not primarily a touchy feely wuss? None... kind of shit. But when it comes to the truth, it can often be found in the middle.
This war with Iraq IS about political BS. It is designed to distract the American populace from our own domestic troubles. War has always been used for that purpose. It revitalizes the economy, "unifies" the american populace by stifling dissent and forces us all into super patriotic war mode.
But the pro-war side is right as well. There are all sorts of good reasons to bomb the hell out of saddam hussein and the iraqi people will be the first ones to benefit from the removal of that a-hole. They wanted him gone in the 90s at the end of Desert Scam.
They are a decent people the Iraqis who have had enough of war and oppression and the question we have to ask ourselves is can we make things better by making them worse, even if it is only temporarily?
The reason Hussein is in power is because he once had our support. He wasnt removed from power becasue he makes too good of a fall guy when the shit hits the fan domestically. Clinton used him right in the middle of the Monica Lewisky mess too so dems arent immune from this kind of Wag the Dog crap.
We have a failed war on terror hitting the skids. if americans weren't debating about Iraq, they might have time to ask quiestions about why bin laden isnt dead and on display in times square.
I got to say though that War DOESNT just happen any more. Not in civilized nations. It happens in the shithole third world all the time but the big guys can and should be more cautious about war. Both sides are naive, neither one has a monopoly on that. Both want peace, one believes that peace cannot be achieved without a show of strength and the occasional war while the other side believes that pacifism and peace are always the same thing.
No matter what side you are one, put yourself in the oppositions shoes for a second and see if you can really grok their point and see the weaknesses in your own. The worst than can happen is you find out you were wrong and if all goes well, you might end up with a stronger more morally clarified version of your own position.
Anybody ever bust a nut at a strip joint?
Consider yourself lucky if you were busy exploring Mr. Blank's German orgasm site when the televised version of Are You Hot? aired on ABC. Wherein snippy Rod Stewart castoff Rachel Hunter and reptilian Lorenzo Lamos sit in judgment of contestant's physical attributes. Oh...my...God.
Many BS writers, Eff in particular, have chronicled the inexorable downfall of Western civilization. So as not to belabor the point, I myslf have shied away from commentary in that regard. But man, this is so over-the-top I could no longer maintain my silence.
Yet words alone can't begin to describe just how demeaning a spectacle this show is. I haven't a clue how lucrative the prize is. Nor do I know one's odds of cashing in on it. But whatever the figure is, it's insufficient. Bill Gates couldn't adequately compensate someone for debasing him or herself in this blatantly crass manner.
Contestants are rated on a scale from one to ten on facial structure, body and overall sex appeal. They stand there like slabs of meat on a hook as Hunter and Lamos pick away at every minute flaw they might discern. Legs too skinny! Too much thigh! But I love those sixpack abs!... What say you turn around so we can have a look at your ass? Hey, not bad! Now, about those teeth... Nice set a jugs! Are those real?...
What does this sound like? To me it sounds like a freaking slave auction. It's particularly egregious when they abuse a black guy this way. Lamos: Your shoulders aren't what you'd like in a field hand. Cotton-picking is hard work. Maybe you could be a houseboy. Hunter: He can be my houseboy any day! So what is the opening bid for this hunka hunka burnin' love? Do I hear $300?
At least slaves had an excuse in that they were coerced. These people have no such out. What this says about the sorry state of our culture is wide open to debate.
If there's any mitigating factor it's that these snakes reserve their most poisonous venom for gaunt Kate Moss lookalikes. Hunter: It's not sexy when your collarbone and ribs protrude. Contestant: Didn't Rod Stewart jilt you when you developed those unsightly love handles?
And that's not all. Are You Hot? throws in a polarizing geographic element for good measure. The episode I suffered through featured hotties and hunks from the Northeast Region. Thus you saw lots of New York waitresses with ethnic action going on. There were also scads of aspiring models from like New Hampshire or someplace. Next up, demure Southern belles who can suck the fruit from pastries without disturbing the crust alongside slack-jawed yahoos whose dads double as their brothers. Yee-ha!
I need to go take a scalding hot shower.
Recently I received a message on the List Serv I’m on at school. Have a gander:
If you are supportive of the U.S. Government's plan to attack Iraq, or you feel Librarians should stay out of "such matters," you may want to delete this email now
The purpose of this email is to put out a call for Librarian Blocks at the upcoming Feb. 15th International day of Protest. Not only could this manifest itself as a contingent of like minded people from the same profession marching behind banners saying things like: "Books not Bombs", “Shushhhhing the Warhawks,” but with the collective creativity of Librarians who knows!
As I was reading this, I wondered what kind of people I was going to school with, learning from. Before I had a change to regret my grad school decision, someone responded to the list. This is what they had to say:
For those who don't want to read another viewpoint please feel free to delete this now.
It is easy to protest against something, it may give you a sense of control where you otherwise feel helpless. It is another thing to provide the alternative solution. What is your solution?
I am tired of your lame protests.
And as I was returning from class today, I had to agree. The subways were full of dirty hippies with nothing better to do on a Saturday afternoon then stand outside and freeze their asses off protesting something that hasn’t even happened yet. Against the war, are you? What fucking war? There is no damn war. Shut up about the war already, ‘kay?
But, okay, lets presume there actually will be a war in Iraq, and this isn’t all just political maneuvering on the part of our brilliant administration. Are you protestor types against war in general, or just this one in particular? If you are against war in general, I guess that’s noble of you, but incredibly naïve. War happens. There is no getting out of, especially if you’ve got a bunch of maniacs running the nations of the world (Bush, Saddam, Kim Jong Il take your pick).
If you are opposed to this war, why? Someone tell me.
Don’t say oil, that reason doesn’t make sense. Saudi Arabia has more oil than Iraq and is linked much easily to the groups behind 9/11. And even if it was about oil, oil is a pretty damn good reason to go to war. Why should we pay $1.79 / gallon when we could spend billions of tax dollars to install a puppet regime in Iraq and pay only, what, like $1.59 / gallon?
And don’t tell me about the starving children in Iraq. This rally is costing millions of dollars in organizational costs to the groups sponsoring the rallies, and millions more to the City of New York (and every other city hosting a protest today) in additional labor costs to manage the crowds and their eventual refuse. Why are you wasting that money on printing leaflets and renting loudspeakers when there are starving children? Stop being such hypocrites.
Besides, the only reason those kids are starving is because their government refuses to abide by U.N. resolutions. If Iraq decided to play nice and did what they were told, what they already agreed to, then the sanctions wouldn’t be necessary.
Really, someone give me one good reason why you are against military action in Iraq. I want to understand. I’m listening to the coverage of the rallies now, and I’m not hearing reasons. Each one of the speakers plays it off like they’ve got the support of the world on their side, but in a recent poll only 29% of respondents unilaterally oppose military action in Iraq. All the "anti-war" rhetoric has yet to convince anyone. In fact, not only are they not convincing me to join their side, but their yelling and wild accusations (sorry, budget cuts at the State University of New York have nothing to do with increases in military spending) are turning me off of the peace movement altogether.
To quote the snarky librarian above, “It is easy to protest against something, it may give you a sense of control where you otherwise feel helpless. It is another thing to provide the alternative solution. What is your solution? I am tired of your lame protests.”
I have been listening to some pretty hateful things being said about our so-called “allies.” Normally, it would be my task to find the middle ground between them and us, but today I feel more like jumping on the bandwagon instead.
To begin, we live in a world where it is becoming increasingly less acceptable and, dare I say, more immoral, to hate people because of their race, ethnicity and the color of their skin. It is a great thing this reduction of irrational prejudice, but all that deep-seated “us vs. them” tension innate to human beings has to go somewhere. Since fat people are the most obvious fall guy and I am a fat guy, I would like to cast my vote for a group of people who have done more to incur the disgust of the world lately besides us and the Visigoths. But of course, I speak of none other than the French.
The French have volunteered time and time again throughout history to step up and be the world’s whipping boy. They like to be hated, it makes them feel superior, so why not give them what they want? Our world desperately needs someone to toss around like a lacrosse ball, why not make it the French?
I am not a big fan of our inevitable war with Iraq. In fact, I believe this fait accompli is as contrived as the plot of “The Waterboy” and just once it would be nice if our elected officials could resolve international conflicts using nothing more deadly than really intense negotiations arbitrated by a neutral third party. Kindergartners call this “diplomacy.”
Regardless of the reasons behind the reasons of American foreign policy, it irritates me no end that our so-called Gallic allies under the leadership of Chirac have no intention of standing by the one country that has hauled their foie gras out of the fire more times than Chef Paul Prudhomme at a Boy Scout Jamboree.
Not to call in old markers or anything, but the French owe us so much the vig alone is worth more than all the truffles in Périgord. They folded like deck chairs on the Titanic in W.W. II. The number of Americans alone who died on D-Day should make France our willing tool well into the 22nd century.
At least the French caved to us as fast as they caved to the Germans, but it certainly wasn’t personal. The way I understand it, they had to THINK about it. In the end, it is probably better to have the French fight alongside your enemy than alongside you. A handful of American Army Reservists with shotguns could defeat the French Army and still make it back to work on Monday while the average fishing boat could outrun the French Navy’s single carrier IF it’s working that day.
Culturally, the French have always leaned toward effete snobbery exactly the way moss doesn’t lean toward the sun. They think they invented the Renaissance. French culture is so conceited even high school kids who take French think they’re better than everybody else. Like they have anything to show for themselves in the last 30 years?
When was the last time you heard of a new French author worth reading?
French culture is declining faster than the credit card machine at Aldi’s. Any language with a nasal “n” phoneme is destined for the scrap heap of history. If it weren’t for their contributions to cheese-making, I’d have no use for the French at all.
The French didn’t even invent French toast. French FRIES are Belgian. French cuisine in general is based on one concept, if you smother everything in butter it won’t totally suck. I am a big butter fan, but let’s face it, you could dip an old shoe in butter and make it taste better than before. That doesn’t make you Julia Child. And you can keep your dark chocolate, too, make mine milky, s’il vous plais.
Ninety percent of the great French philosophers were mental Onanists who gave us nothing more important than “existentialism” or “the philosophy of self-pity” that put man at the center of the universe while making it seem absolutely pointless to BE alive. “I think, therefore I am?” Think this, Slappy! I’ve known plenty of people who existed without thinking. Monsieur Descartes (or should I call you René?) Father of modern philosophy? Give me Lao Tzu any day, baby.
And that’s another thing, how much respect can we have for a country where men have names like René, Michel and Dominique?
Just about everybody dislikes the French. I’m at least 25 percent French and I can’t even stand myself. Frankly, if there were some kind of Michael Jackson-style French-reducing operation, I’d go for it. Fortunately for me, French chromosomes don’t really stick to anything. Like Frenchmen, French genes give up easily unless they are trying to give America the finger.
Every French man and woman I’ve ever met personally tried to start a fight with me over some fine point of American policy I did not personally advocate, perpetuate or endorse. So it doesn’t really surprise me that they plan to block us at every move with Iraq. That is the most unfortunate thing of all because in the end, France could have done more to prevent this war by being on our side and helping to apply pressure than by opposing us.
La colomne est finie!
Holidays are always good for webloggers. Let me tell you, the content just writes itself when Arbor day rolls around.
But, instead of taking the easy way out, and just writing about how much I hate Valentine’s Day because I’m alone. I could write about how I don’t mind Valentine’s Day because I’m okay with being alone; which, of course, would be a lie. I could write about how I’m okay with Valentine’s Day because I’m in love; which would be a phenomenal lie, unless I count loving myself; which I don’t because that’s just sad.
Instead, I’m just going to ignore the topic completely.
Seriously, I’m done for the day.
Not another word.
Okay, okay already! How could I possibly ignore this opportunity? But, instead of being bitter about being alone for yet another year I’m going to be happy for all the love I do have in my life. Platonic love. Familial love. Self love. But most of all, linky love (click continue for the love):
till death do us part: © © © © © © © © © © © © © © © © © © © © © © ©
love the ones you're with: © © © © © © © © © © © © © © © © © © © © © © © © © © © © © © © © © © © © © © © © © © © © © © © © © © © © © © © © © © © © © © © ©
secret crushes: © © © © © © © © © © © © © © © © © © ©
I hope you all have the Symbol font installed on your computers, otherwise that looks like crap. Or, rather, a bunch of “©” symbols, which would be entirely inappropriate for the occasion. Besides, I’m not supposed to be announcing my intellectual property rights to all of your weblogs for another couple weeks (my lawyers are still filing the writs).
I was going to form the little hearts into one bigger ascii heart. But then I started doing it and realized how hard it was (I’m not artist, ascii or otherwise). I decided as much as I love you all, I had much better things to do with my time; like sit on my ascii in front of the tv and watch Judge Judy.
At any rate. Thanks for all the linky love, and the commenty love, the coming by reading the site everyday love. Hopefully you'll all be getting some hot and sweaty love tonight.
I like Christmas rather more than most aspiring curmudgeons, so this phrase never really suits me during its usual season. But Valentine's Day? Too right! To hell with Valentine's Day! I'm fed up with the entire enterprise, and VD only serves to remind me of why.
The world does not need a day dedicated to gooey, irritating public displays of affection. It's all we can do to stamp out such undecorous intrusions on the sensibilities of others on normal days. I'd be all for it if - like the old Roman Festival of Dionysus - it served as a once-a-year outlet for bad behaviour, thereby reducing the overall amount of such nonsense to which the rest of us are subjected. We could just hide under the covers for a day and that would be that. But, no! Not for our self-absorbed, unmannered brethren. Giving over a holiday to it just encourages them all the more.
Dating - blech! I'm up to here with all of it. I'm tired of "getting back on the horse" and trying again because, since I happen to have a Y-chromosome, the responsibility for making the effort falls entirely onto my shoulders. There's got to be a better way to propagate the species. Something orderly and less fraught with disillusionment, discontent, and wastage on my credit card.
There will be no enrichment of Hallmark through the buying of sappy cards today. Nor will Russell Stover pry open my wallet and succeed in guilting me into purchasing any "fat girl candy" assortments. The florists are fresh outta luck. I'm going to spend money today on nothing except vice: Cigarettes, coffee, maybe some ammo (if I drank, I'd buy something especially non-romantic - most likely something bourbon-flavoured - but I don't so someone else will have to).
Ah, what's the use? Screw it.
And, yes, if you were wondering, I did have a date last night.
<ed note> Some special Valentine's Day thoughts from a Bad Samaritan comment regular. He is gunning for a spot in the regular rotation. Does he deserve a call up to the majors? * You decide. </ed note>
Here it is. Valentines day again and I'm alone. I have been bombarded by commercials with men upon bended knee, proposing undying love to blindingly glowing women. What's wrong with this picture?
The love I know is fleeting, painful, and, at times, down right spiteful. Maybe I'm being a bit negative but love has hurt me more times than I can count. I remember all too well that sinking feeling, in your stomach, when you find out that you're living a lie and the other person you cherish is growing away from you. That is a shitty feeling.
It's one hell of a diet though.
Fuck Jenny Craig. Just go out there, give your heart to someone else, for safe keeping, and wait. It's coming. Then BAM! Your heart is ripped out, your trust demolished, and you're on the plan. The smell of food no longer stirs any hunger pangs. You're content to wallow in your own misery existing on alcohol, if that's your bag, or any other self depreciating substance you can get your hands on.
Over the course of a few weeks the pounds seem to magically melt away. You can wear the clothes in the back of your closet again and look pretty damn good with the exception of the dark circles, due to lack of sleep and tears. This is all a part of the process to get you ready to go back out there and do it again.
What a vicious circle. I'll never understand why we put ourselves through this kind of abuse. I mean, we're the ones with opposable thumbs and large brains right? A lot of good it does us in matters of the heart. We might as well be dragging our knuckles, hooting, and throwing shit at one another.
I'm, generally, a very optimistic person and I think I have a good outlook on life but damn, this subject stumps me. I'll tell you one thing though, I'm going out there to do it again, very soon, and it scares the shit out of me. Oh well, If it doesn't work out at least I'll be able to fit my fat ass back in my 34 pants.
What an ornery old coot I've become. Plus I'm an unabashed bigot. Don't invite me to liven up your dinner party.
I'm uncomfortable coexisting with wild-eyed religious nuts, for instance. Fundamentalist Muslims zealots called Wahibis in particular spark my ire. Osama and his vile ilk belong to this sect. Wahibi doctrine brought you Sept 11 among countless other crimes against humanity. The world would be a better place without any Wahibis. It's their way or the highway, literally. Either you agree to sport unsightly head-to-toe burqas or mandatory facial hair, accept that human portraits are evil and that Winona Ryder's sticky fingers should have been lopped off or you must die. There's no middle ground with them. No kite-flying, booze, unaccompanied women, frivolity, fun, female orgasms, no gays, no nothing. It's called sharia, which is Arabian for "laws from hell."
In pursuit of their twisted aims they've not only perpetrated countless atrocities and lopped off many clitori, but ruined bright sunny days for me. I can no longer revel in a gorgeous blue sky without being reminded of that day which so drastically altered the course of this nascent millennium.
Speaking of which, it pisses me off too. Mill 3 began with high hopes tempered by Y2K fears, only to fizzle out. Ditto for the asshole who's come to epitomize these rancorous times: pompous, overbearing know-it-all Bill O'Reilly.
What's more, I can't stand the way Trista the vacuous Bachelorette chirps "think you" every time a suitor praises her outfit. Pretty but shallow women do this all the time, as if they can't be bothered with pronouncing "thank" whenever someone pays them a complement. Whores.
Last in my laundry list of laments is the traffic. I live 14 miles from my job, yet commuting consumes 10% of my waking hours.
Getting back to the all-too-real terrorist menace afoot in our midst, I reside outside Washington DC. They say F-16 fighters are patrolling the skies. Ominous-looking helicopters hoer like flies at a slaughterhouse. Snipers and antiaircraft batteries are said to be poised to fend off Wahibi scoundrels bent on mayhem.
So what's the prevailing mood here? I'd characterize it as less jittery than fatalistic, which is a helluva lot more than I could say for those weak-kneed French. Gallows humor abounds. Nobody I know is cowering in a well-stocked "safe room." Either American spirit is remarkably resilient or we've all been driven mad by reality TV, this dud of a millennium, traffic woes, the threat matrix and O'Reilly.
Think you very much.
My old roommate, Pete, was so anal retentive that he could spend $14/week on groceries and be more than satisfied. I never really knew what the phrase "more than satisfied" meant until I saw what I am about to tell you.
Pete would buy Kraft spaghetti dinners. I don't know if they still have these, but they could serve two easily. He would prepare the entire contents with the sauce all mixed in and then pour everything on one huge serving platter of a plate we had. Total cost: $1.25. He would then systematically consume it like a python eating a guinea pig making these gulping gasping heavy breathing sounds like he was drowning in tomato sauce. He was like that fat guy in SEVEN only skinny. He was a world class glutton.
Pete might have been able to spend even less on groceries than he did if he had pasta and sauce separately or even saved half of the Kraft for another meal. But Pete liked the completeness of one box, one pan, one plate...
One night, Pete was busy consuming this huge quantity of spaghetti. Gulp, gulp, slurp, slurp...when he stood up and moved to the bathroon after finishing off 75% of the plate. From the bathroom came the distant sound of chunder!
RAAAALLLLPPPHHH!! Followed by a second less enthusiastic hurl. RAALPH!?
The toilet flushed, water splashed in the sink, and Pete comes out, looks at me looking at him and says, "must've been the beer."
I nearly wet 'em, I nearly did. The man was like a damn dog, but even a dog will stop eating when it is so full it will puke. To top it all off, Pete sits back down and finishes the last 25% of his plate without even blinking. Sweat and tears on his face, straining with the effort, he soaked up the last hint of sauce with a piece of bread and just to complete the cycle of obsessive compulsion, he waddled over to the sink and dropped his plate under the faucet before passing out. God I admired that man's dedication to third rate Italian fare.
We still talk about that incident some 16 years later and Pete refers to it as though it were one of his finest moments. If there were a glutton olympics, I'm sure he'd take the gold in the vomit race.
Apparently Bad Samaritan is nominated for a couple Nude Blog Awards. One might think, considering how much I bitched about those other awards, that I’d be excited to be nominated. Maybe it’s just my new meds, but I care less about the Nude Bloggies than I did about my Tony Award nomination last year (Best Performance by a Featured Actress in a Musical).
But, speaking of nudity and things I don’t care about, I never got around to thanking all the people who supported be in my aborted Blogwhore run. Thanks to Michele, Wendy, Lucy, Sam, Syd, William Ted, Casey, and most of all Josh, who did this kick ass drawing for me.
I’m really disappointed that more of you didn’t lend a hand. I blame my deletion from the game entirely on your lack of support, not the fact I was a complete ass and everyone hated me for it.
I promised all the people who did support me a naked picture. Well, I lied. Seriously, don’t you know me better than that by now? I feel bad though. I’m a liar, but I’m also very guilty. It's probably something I picked up from all the Catholics in me. So, considering I like to share, even if it's with people who couldn't put up a simple link to help out there Idol, I'm going to put the picture up here. It's not quite nude, but damn close. Not safe for work.
Wow. The outburst of creativity below is a tough act to follow.
At the office park where I pretend to work while marking time till retirement, they're waging a war against Canadian geese. To trod the parking lot is to navigate a minefield of goose shit. They toddle across the road single file, holding up traffic for minutes on end. And they honk more boisterously than New Yorkers stranded in a traffic jam.
We receive periodic updates on the ongoing battle against this scourge. Management has deployed a variety of desperate measures, all to little avail. Of late they've been reduced to cleaning up the mess left behind and shooing the pests away from the pond that forms the centerpiece of our office park. Seems the fowl foul the once-pristine waters.
So they turned to, and I kid you not, the Geese Police. It's beyond comical to watch as grim-faced women sic border collies on the geese, which respond by honking loudly.
Needless to say, these efforts have all been for naught. Trying to keep waterfowl away from water is like trying to keep Robert Downey Jr. away from cocaine. It isn't going to happen. Worse still, you can't massacre the gaggle because migratory birds are protected by Federal statutes.
They're dealing with a similar problem at the landfill near my mom's house. It's infestested with newly emboldened vultures, which must be the creepiest and most ornery birds alive. Not surprisingly, locals have taken to dumping their trash alongside the road rather than deal with these pushy critters.
Stupid geese, stupid buzzards. D'oh!
I believe in evil. I always have. The thing about evil I believe above all else is that most people don’t comprehend that it is more pervasive and more routine than we think. There is casual evil in the world as well as the big obvious stuff.
We are thick creatures. We like to be hit over the head with evidence so hard it could support a skyscraper and so obvious it could play on daytime television.
We cannot comprehend evil when it doesn’t look and smell like the image of evil we keep in our heads. If the devil were to show up on our doorstep with pretty blue eyes, blond hair and a surfer boy cleanliness about his lean 6-foot-2 frame, we would let him into our homes eagerly, unable to see him for what he is. We are far too easily taken in by appearances.
I’d like to say this is just a parable, but I actually had a friend like this in junior high and high school. In retrospect, he was a sociopath. He once posed to me a moral question that was so unspeakably evil in nature that I cannot explicitly repeat it here in the pages of this family publication.
Awwww FUCK IT!
This pretty boy most everybody loved for his clean appearance and blonde hair and sweet blue eyes once asked me the following question: if you were driving down the road and you came upon a car accident and got out to check and it was Cheryl Ladd and she was dead, but only JUST dead like still warm and she wasn't messed up or anything and no one was around and no one was gonna find out... would you fuck'er?
I said no and recoiled in horror. Pretty boy said: I would! C'mon man it's Cheryl Ladd!
Well, technically it's not any more since her soul left her fuckin' body you freak!
Yeah but she's still warm!
Who cares, she's dead! That's sick!
That question was such that no normal, moral individual would have hesitated in their response. Pretty boy and I aren’t friends today and I don’t know exactly where he is, but I’m sure the Vatican is keeping tabs on him in case he turns out to be the anti-Christ.
It’s been said true evil is as pure as innocence. No where is that more clearly evident than in the case of one Mr. Michael Jackson who demonstrated with an unrivaled clarity to millions of Americans last week that he is whacked right out of his skull and steeped in a wickedness that makes me want to speak like a 17th century New England Calvinist minister.
Michael Jackson should be branded with a scarlet “Oh my Lord, stay back 300-feet before this pasty, pointy nosed freak swallows your soul!”
Michael Jackson set off my weird meter before the allegations of pedophilia in 1993, but it was at that point that Jacko’s sway over America began to crumble. He suddenly went from eccentric to criminal to many people and rightly so.
What we witnessed last week should have been the bullet in the brain pan of any last shred of Jacko defending. What I saw was a grown man who could look right into a television camera with his hideously altered face and say that any suggestion that he had plastic surgery was just “stupid and crazy.”
He also said any suggestion that he could ever hurt a child was “stupid and crazy” without blinking. How can we buy that?
Frankly, I think Michael Jackson’s life and concept of morality is so far out of line with the median view held by humanity that he could be doing things at the Neverland Ranch that make Caligula blush and he still wouldn’t think he was doing anything wrong.
At some point, instead of getting upset that people find your behavior odd and possibly illegal, you just have to stop.
Michael Jackson is a weird and trippy cat and that means something coming from a weird, trippy cat like me, but he is beyond the pale and makes the alarms of all sensible people ring like the bells of St. Mary’s.
Michael Jackson is about to become our Judas Goat. We shall imbue him with all our sins and destroy him publicly for his wrongdoing and ours. Afterwards, we shall be cleansed and Jackson will disappear into obscurity. Possibly in Belgium.
I don’t know about the rest of you, but besides for the past couple days when it seems like everyone is on vacation, I’m really enjoying the New Bad Samaritan, now with 70% less MG. Sure, I may just be liking things this way because it’s easier for me and I’m so lazy, but it’s more than that.
What it seems like, really, is that Bad Samaritan has finally become the community that I’ve always claimed it to be. Even before, when I’ve had other people writing, it was always the MG show. Which, really, I kind of enjoyed because I can be a bit of an egomaniac sometimes. But, what I always wanted is for this to be a true group weblog.
I don’t know how many people have told me that they’d stop by to read only the things I was writing, skipping anything that didn’t have my cute little picture in the upper left hand corner. Sure, they may have just been saying that because I was standing right there in front of them, but I like to take people at their word. I’m naïve that way, especially when it puts me in a good light. I guess that would make me a naïve narcissist.
Still, as much as I glowed with pride, I was upset that the non-MG content, most of it exceptionally well written, wasn’t getting the same kind of attention. But in the past couple months I’ve seen the staff come in to their own. It’s even gotten to the point where most of their posts do better than mine, comment wise.
Now, the old me would have taken that personally, and I’d have pulled out every passive aggressive trick in my arsenal to make people love them less, or, better still, love me more. Maybe I’d have faked an illness to gain sympathy (I do a great Gonorrhea). Maybe I’d reveal the strange secret sexual proclivities of one of the authors. But it’s for damn sure I’d have done something.
The new me, though, the new me looks at what’s going on and says “Hell yeah! You guys rock like the Lileth Fair on roofies!” This is what I’ve always wanted, and now that the writer’s are actually writing, it leaves me more time to work on my true calling – International Diplomacy. That whole peace in the Middle East thing? I’ve been working on it the last couple days, and I think I’ve got it nearly hammered out.
Tooling around town in a massive SUV does have its advantages. Sitting up that high I enjoy a bird's eye view of the myriad goings-on in the sedans, coupes and convertibles below. I've seen bubble gum popping, dining, temple massages, beer drinking, unruly brats backhanded, animated cell phone conversations, people fooling around with CDs and various hand-held devices, two gay men smooching, dog-petting, tit-flashing, shaving, nose-picking, makeup application, off-key singing along with the radio and a blowjob to boot.
I found the last five items particularly puzzling. These are all common activities that one normally does in private, after all. It seems like drivers believe their cars are their secret lairs, where anything goes. No one would dare to observe what they're up to in there, right? Ah but we do, and it's disgusting as hell. Well, actually the singing isn't so much disgusting as embarrassing; much like the empathy I feel for that white wench who boogies in the passenger seat of the Mitsubishi. What, praytell, is she doing? How much was she paid? Not enough, that's for sure.
As much as I hate to admit this, I found the gay tongue-kissing episode a tad unsettling as well. It's one thing to embrace homosexuality as a concept, which I most certainly do. It's quite another to share a lane with dudes who appear just moments from mounting one another at stoplights. Get a room. (Ditto for the mobile pearl necklace.)
Then there's those stretch limos with their tinted windows. It irks me to no end that the wealthy occupants feel free to deprive me of my inalienable right to monitor their activities and form wildly erroneous opinions based thereon. I'm forced to utilize my imagination to conger up a mental image of what sort of depravity's happening back there in those spacious confines. I picture snooty people sipping Cristal champagne, snorting meth and mocking the foreign chauffeur behind his back. But they're probably late for meetings and nervously checking their Rolex watches.
Speaking of rich people's lifeblood, I saw what must be the most useless product ever offered at Total Wine yesterday. It was a champagne cork re-inserter. Now a bottle of champagne holds maybe four glasses tops, provided it doesn't spray all over the place when you uncork it. And like bowling, seldom if ever is the bubbly consumed alone. So why would anyone ever feel a need to reseal the bottle?
<ed note>The following is truley uniteresting. I just wanted everyone to know I wasn't dead. Not that, i'm sure, anyone thought that </ed note>
Hey, I woke up this morning to see a beautiful sheet of snow covering the city. Can’t see the dirt when it’s covered with snow.
Thinking ahead, I left the house early, and made it with plenty of time to relax before my 8:30 class. Relax, or catch up on the reading I’d neglected to do at any point during the previous week.
When I got there, I was the only person in the room until. Eventually, the security guard came by and told me classes had been cancelled for the day. I didn’t have to get up at 6:30 am after all.
Well, since I do have a paper due tomorrow, it means I have more time to spend in the Library finishing my research. But wait, since classes were cancelled, the librarians got a day off to spend with their families at home in their warm snuggly beds.
But, I’m in New York City and there are plenty of other libraries. I’ll just go to the New York Public Library. Did I mention that this is the first semester my school’s offered Friday classes, since many of the students work at NYPL and the NYPL doesn’t open until noon on Fridays so no one has to miss work?
So, I sat around for three hours. Hit the library, filled even more so than usual with homeless people, because the cold drove them to any public indoor space that wont kick their stinky asses out. Isn’t that polite of the NYPL?
So, who is still up finishing his paper at 1 a.m., even though I had “three extra hours?” I am! Who is pissed off the my Friday, exciting class was cancelled, while my Saturday, boring class, with a paper due in it that I’m currently procrastinating finishing at this very moment, is ready set go for tomorrow? I am!
Guess this site won't be updated anytime soon. LAPD spokesmen allege that "Wall of Sound" producer Phil Spector gunned Ms. Clarkson down in the marble foyer of his posh spread. A limo driver who'd ferried the pair from the House of Blues reported hearing gunshots around 5 AM. Thus it's unlikely an argument could have developed in that short period of time.
Now, should you choose to lead a murderous lifestyle, it's hardly my place to get all judgmental about it. That authority rests solely with God and Dr. Phil. But I am intrigued by this all-too-common happenstance of washed-up celebs O.J.ing their associates. My reasons are twofold. First, I can relate to being falsely accused of such heinous activities. Police once interrogated me about a murder that occured locally. As detectives' tone grew ever more accusatory, I'm thinking: "Dude, I may be a bit of a hothead but I'd never dream of killing anyone." Last I saw of the victim, he was walking away after I'd ousted him from my apartment. He was miffed but very much alive. When they invited me back for a return chat, I told them to fuck off. (The perpetrators were later apprehended, much to my relief.)
I also wonder how these people maintain their lavish lifestyles without working. Robert Blake's star turn on Baretta ended May 18, 1978. Not a peep had been heard from him since, until word of his wife's shooting filtered out. Likewise, Spector's last successful outing was producing the Beatle's Let It Be. How then do they pay their butlers, maids and hookers?
Police have no other suspects in the Clarkson rubout. Nor is this the first time Spector's been implicated in bizarre, violent behavior. He reportedly pulled a gun on Joey Ramone during a recording session. Perhaps Joey failed to harmonize to his liking. Also, his wife says he forced her to tool around town with a blow-up doll of him in the passenger seat of her Bentley.
The 6" tall, 40 year old, bleach blonde victim had appeared in a string of awful movies. (Not to be confused with Bo Derek.) To supplement her meager acting income, she toiled as a "hostess" at said club. Supposedly she'd just met Spector that night. She'd also just finished a screenplay that focused on the sordid behind-the-scenes action in the music industry. The reclusive Spector had once been a major player therein. My theory is that he killed her to adopt the screenplay as his own. After all, who'd be the wiser? Devotees of her website?
Well, here's your chance to play Agent Scully, if you like. Given the available facts, how do you think this lady wound up toe-tagged in the morgue?
"Severance," the birds of leaving call to us. Yet here we stand endowed with the fear of flight. — Dead Can Dance
When my buddy Kirk's dad died, the last thing he needed was people coming up to him every other minute telling him how sorry they were. The kid was always sensitive and what's worse, embarrassed by his sensitivity. So when he started crying in public, it wasn't just crying it was embarrassed crying which is worse because you feel like people are staring at you and you can't stop. So Pete and I (all roommates in college) decided the LAST thing we would do was talk about his dad unless it was funny.
We talked about all sorts of things and had a good time, strange as it is to say, but there is nothing as precious as those moments of feeling good in the midst of tragedy. It was like reading the first edition of the ONION after 9/11. If felt good to laugh.
I used to imitate Kirk's dad coming over to our college apartment for dinner. "MMMM Hambuger Helper, my favorite." It was funny because his dad hated HH but was so polite you would never know he hated it. He was a true gentleman. So I did a good one at the luncheon. "Mmmmm, jello salad, my favorite."
He was also the kind of guy who you just KNEW wanted you to not be sad at his funeral. Of course we were because he was awesome. He was a Renaissance man who had been in Air Force intelligence in the 60s, he spoke fluent Russian, read sheet music while he listened to classical music and could quote authors all day long without looking in a book.
He used to make us wine coolers with whatever wine he had on hand and 7UP. He taught me how to pour a beer without being a dick about it. One time when he was at our apartment, we were watching TV on this old set we had. The screen was all dark, we had the brightness turned all the way up but we just thought the tube was getting old. So Kirk's dad takes a look at the TV and looks at us and wipes his finger over the screen and comes away with about an ounce of dust. The light the came from that crack in the dust was BLINDING.
He was a good man, but the hardest part of the funeral wasn't our own memories it was watching our buddy in pain. I have never felt closer to any of my friends than when i could be there for them at a really hard time.
Here's to you Garland, wherever you are!
B is one of my best friends. His grandfather passed away Saturday morning. I've never met his grandfather, but I've known B for 17 years. He's like a brother. If he hurts, I will be there for him.
The wake was this morning. I didn't want to go. I really didn't want to go. It may have been selfish of me, but exactly one year ago my grandmother died, and the last thing I wanted today was to deal with funerals and death and any kind of grief. But, if one thing is sure about me, it's that I love my friends. I will get through my shit, put it aside, if I need to be there to help someone through their shit.
B’s family is Chinese and the wake is in the heart of Chinatown. If I didn't already feel out of place walking in that neighborhood, when I got to the funeral home I scanned the announcements board and all the names were in Chinese. Not that it would matter, since I don't even know B's grandfather's name.
I stood in the front hall feeling very confused and out of place. I hoped a recognizable face would walk by and I could follow them… anywhere but standing in this hallway. After a few minutes the funeral director noticed me standing there dumbfounded and asked if he could help. I stammered out my situation and he politely informed me that there was no wake today. Quite unable to comprehend what he was saying, I explained everything again. He assured me, again, that there was no wake today.
If it says anything about how messed up I was feeling at the moment I thought the funeral director must have lied to me because I was white. I stood outside the funeral home for another 15 minutes, until I allowed myself to realize this was my fault; that no funeral director would turn a mourner away because of the color of their skin.
I went about the rest of my day thinking, "I fucked up. B needed me today and I fucked up." Tonight I called up him. I asked how he was doing, and told him I how sorry I am for his loss, and that if he needs anything from me, I am here.
It didn't make a difference, really, but I felt the need to apologize for not being there today. I wanted him to know I wanted to be there, that I was thinking of him. When I finished explaining what happened that morning he said something that left me dumbfounded for the second time that day: "It's next week."
"Yes," he said, “the wake is next week.” And then he laughed at me. And I laughed too. I don't know if that was the first time he laughed since Saturday, but even if it wasn't, I'm glad I could do something for him. Even such a little thing. Even if it means I come out looking like a dork.
What with all the depressing news of war, famine, train wrecks, avalanches and the Space Shuttle explosion lately, I thought you might enjoy this uplifting tale. It’s about my lifelong chum Ramon.
Growing up he was one of those scrawny misfits who speaks softly if at all. He was also very secretive. Hence his nicknames, Mumbles and Secret Squirrel. Though not by any means stupid, he was a so-so student. As we all went off to college, he drifted down to Tampa, Florida. For a while I lost touch with him. Then he returned home and it was clear to all that a transformation had taken place. For one thing, he had begun overcompensating by being loud and boisterous. He also had money in abundance. Before long we all learned that the Tampa recording studio he spoke of was no more than a sham, a front for his drug-dealing enterprise.
And a successful enterprise it was, for a time anyway. He soon owned posh spreads in Florida and Maryland, paid for in cash. Guard dogs patrolled his yard. He hooked up with a stunner named Traci. They married, and at the reception Dom Perignon flowed freely. Tuxedo-clad waiters strolled about with trays laden with fancy Greek appetizers. Over two hundred guests were in attendance. A string quartet played much like the one depicted in Titanic. This wasn’t one of those “finger food” deals where guests go home famished either. A full three course meal was served.
The gold-digger Traci screwed all his friends with impunity. Afterwards she’d badmouth him behind his back. She took him to the cleaners in their divorce. Blackmail may have played some role in that.
As so often happens with the nouveau riche, his arrogance knew no bounds. Ditto for his mercurial temper, particularly when it came to his brazen wife. Worse still, he started dipping into his wares big-time. Yet Ramon wasn’t one of those people upon whom dope exert an exhilarating influence. The higher he’d get, the more sullen and withdrawn he’d grow. His business began to suffer from his burgeoning addiction and depression. Plus, he shied away from violence. His gang thus lacked enforcers to deal with those who’d inevitably renege on debts. NBC’s new hit Kingpin, it wasn’t.
Despite his penchant for paying cash, the DEA got wind of Ramon's operation. His fairy tale life fell apart. They charged him with running a Continuing Criminal Enterprise, which carries a life sentence. Through a combination of ratting out suppliers and hiring savvy lawyers, Ramon was able to cop a plea. Off to a min-sec Federal prison he went to serve out a six year sentence. You know the horrors depicted in Cool Hand Luke or more recently, Oz? Well, this isn’t like that.
He was a model prisoner, which earned him special privileges including the right to attend his mom’s funeral flanked by a Federal Marshall. He also studied hard, earning a Bachelor’s Degree in Business and Finance. When not hitting the books, he worked out in the gym, bulking up to a rippling 175 pounds. He took up tennis, twice winning the prison tournament. Most importantly, he swore off drugs and alcohol. Upon release, he remained clean & sober. He has told me that being sent to prison was the best thing that ever happened to him.
Now Ramon works in mergers and acquisitions, a job that brings him to exotic offshore locales. He spends a lot of time in the Virgin Islands and Cuba, of all places. And he’s still got his ill-begotten fortune.
So as tax time draws near, perhaps you’ll take some solace in knowing your money is well spent. To incarcerate someone runs an average of $16,000 annually, much more as they age. In Ramon’s case, that came out to $96,000. Which doesn’t account for his free college tuition and tennis lessons. Oh, did I forget to mention the...tanning salon? Does it really make any sense to continue locking up drug offenders when it’s clear to all that the so-called “War on Drugs” is an utter failure? I think not.
It is sad the way a family can come apart in a heartbeat. I was covering a trial in a nearby town last Thursday. This kid went on a shooting spree last April and shot at two cops. Both lived but come trial time, the kid says he was suicidal and wanted the cops to kill him becasue he was addicted to kiddie p0rn and was so ashamed that he could not go on living.
Forget this kid for a second, he is obviously messed up, but think about how his parents must feel. They are well off, more or less happy, then one day they get up at 3 am and find their increasingly depressed son is about to go on a shooting spree, that he is addicted to looking at kids in the wrong way and that, after a bench trial, he is about to go away if not for the rest of his life, for the rest of your life. That's got to suck to an extent most of us cannot fathom.
Every member of this kid's family lost it on the stand in front of bystanders and the media. His lawyer was a grandstanding prick who used the kiddie angel to get some media attention. Ironic when you consider the one thing this kid didn't want everyone in the world to know about was his addiction. That cat is officially out of the bag.
With all today’s news coverage of the Columbia explosion, one might think that no one else, in the entire world, died today. If you took a second from CNN’s constant coverage to think about it, you’d realize that couldn’t possibly be the case.
For example, did you know that 40 people were killed in a train accident in Zimbabwe today? The country is in the midst of a severe gasoline shortage. People are traveling miles to get it, and carrying it back to their homes. Someone was transporting gasoline on the train and it somehow caught fire, killing 40 and injuring 60 more.
I doubt you’ve heard about it. The only reason I found it was because I was purposely looking for a non-NASA related tragedy. It took me nearly an hour to find one. The likelihood this story received even a second of coverage on your local news is next to zero. And for damn sure, it won’t make the cover of Sunday’s papers. Why? Are the lives of 7 astronauts worth more than the lives of 40 Africans? If the news is any indication, they do.
But I choose to ignore the news. I choose to ignore the Columbia. Not because death doesn’t move me. It does.
I ignored the news today because (by choice or simply lack of information) I ignore all those unnecessary deaths that never warrant breaking into my regularly scheduled programming. I either have to ignore it all or spend my life in constant mourning. I may be a New Yorker, but even I don’t have that much black clothing.
If I were to take a moment of reflection for the death of every innocent soul, I would spend my life in silence. So, I choose to honor the lives of those who died on the Columbia today by not dishonoring the lives of all those who died without the benefit of a Presidential speech, the front page of every newspaper, and millions of bytes of weblog chatter.
I think it’s awful that those people died. I think it’s awful when anyone dies prematurely. Does that mean I’ll get all weepy over one tragedy, while heedfully ignoring the hundreds of others that take place everyday, but will never make the headlines? It might make me an asshole to say I didn’t feel a thing watching the coverage today, but I’d rather be an ass than a hypocrite.
Although we earn decent money, my family is woefully house-poor. We still have antiquated dial-up Internet access. My idea of extravagance is to put an extra flavored creamer in my 7-11 coffee.
So we seldom get out to the movies. Our last outing was A Beautiful Mind. I shelled out forty bucks to watch the dolt Russell Crowe impersonate a math whiz gone bonkers. Hated it. It follows that I won’t see Jack Nicholson costarring with Kathy Bates in About Schmidt, even though I always thought he should have played the tormented author in Misery. No, I’ll wait till it comes out on DVD and then harangue my son into putting it in his PS-2 and turning it on. We won’t pause it or view any of the “bonus scenes.” Nor will we sample the alternate camera angles, because neither of us know how.
I have read several rave reviews, however. Of particular interest is a hot-tub scene wherein the fat, middle-aged Bates displays full frontal nudity and plays footsy with Nicholson. Reviewers imply that it may go further than that, which I find revolting. Just as I wretch at the notion of a real-life Nicholson mounting his wafer-thin plaything Lara Flynn-Boyle. I envision her scrawny ass enveloped beneath a sprawling mound o’ lecher.
Part of the reason lots of people are so turned off by the elderly having sex is that they harbor traumatic memories of catching their parents doing the deed. Or worse, one of their parents making it with someone else. Or perhaps engaged in something aside from traditional boot-knocking. Try as I may to obliterate this disturbing imagery from my mind, still it remains as if a hardy toe fungus. I will spare you any further details, though there’s no guarantee others will be so discrete.
It’s not as if all old people are so unattractive either. For instance, check out these mature babes.
I think it’s more that we’d prefer our elders to go around doing senior citizen things like playing shuffleboard or knitting or obsessing over bowel movements. We do not want them rolling on Ecstasy or dispensing gum jobs willy-nilly like some junior high hussy. (Thanks to Bill Clinton’s obfuscation, most teenage girls no longer consider pearl necklaces sex. Dude, when bodily fluids are exchanged, it’s sex.)
Which brings me to the larger issue of why some folks never grow up, even if they hold high public office. Or at least they don’t feel grown up. Youths assume the day will come when they start to care deeply about lawn care or stock market fluctuations or Iraq. They tell themselves they’ll transition into adulthood any day now. Yet in my experience, that day never quite arrives. I still feel like a mischievous kid masquerading as a grownup. This is particularly true when forced to interact with other parents who come across as Responsible Adults Who’d Never Surf Internet Porn. (When my son was younger I put on my Adult Mask to bring him to a play date. His playmate’s dad and I played the game until it dawned on us that we’d known one another back in high school. We’d passed out at parties, skipped school and vandalized stuff together. So much for the masquerade.)
Yesterday I took in A Night With Dame Edna at the National Theatre. The tickets were a birthday gift to my beloved. This old bird is saucy, sarcastic and utterly unashamed of his/her sexuality. He/she also claims to have rigged up sensors on his/her 99 year old mother’s legs so she could tell how far apart they were. Ugh.