Whose Smoke Screen Reigns Supreme?

I typically watch George W. Bush's international press conferences just for the comedic value; when he's on camera with a head-of-state from another country, viewers get the dichotomic hilarity of watching Lancelot Link smirk and preen like Jack Nicholson working his way through a million-dollar gift card from Heidi Fleiss, while squirming uncomfortably because, in truth, he couldn't find his guest's homeland on a map that showed only that country.

But today's press conference was special.

That's because, no matter what our idiot-in-charge did -- he couldn't overpower the sheer, huggable adorableness of Japanese prime-minister Junichiro Koizumi, whom at any moment I expected to smile, and -- with a mischievous glint in his eye -- walk over and unveil the secret ingredient.

Allez cuisine!

Generation Y... As In "Y Didn't My Father Do The World a Favor and Smother Me at Birth?"

Dear God, I hate MySpace.

I hate it as much as I hate those damned Brazilians and their futbol.

Just take a look at this poor kid.

There's just no hope for her. She may as well resign herself to a life of bathroom blow jobs and illegitimate pregnancies.

And Jesus Christ what it must be like for this kid's father -- knowing that the angelic baby girl he once held in his arms and had such high hopes for is doomed to never advance beyond a 5th-grade reading level, and will wind up wasting her teenage years working at Hot Topic or Orange Julius, only to eventually develop a debilitating coke habit and die in a puddle of her own sick on a stripper pole in Smyrna, Georgia.

If he has anything resembling shame or human dignity, he'd end her suffering. He may as well get it over with before he sees her turn up on teenwhorethreesomes.com. I figure he's got about two months left -- three tops. Come on Dad, you created this mess, time to clean it up.

America, take a look at your future and assure me again that global warming is the biggest threat to this country.

This has been a "The More You Know" public service announcement... now back to My Name is Earl.

Requiem

Staff Sgt. Raymond J. Plouhar has died in a roadside bombing in Iraq.

It happened on Monday in the volatile al-Anbar province.

His father describes him as somebody who always befriended those who didn't have any friends.

He once donated a kidney to save an uncle.

In 2004, Staff Sgt. Plouhar was one of two Marines seen vigorously recruiting teenagers for military service in Michael Moore's film, Fahrenheit 911.

It would almost be funny if it weren't so utterly tragic.

He was scheduled to come home in 38 days.

Staff Sgt. Plouhar leaves behind a wife, and two children who aren't old enough to understand war, irony, or the fact that their father's death will surely be exploited by both sides of the obscene struggle for hearts, minds and votes here at home.

I'm Super... Thanks for Asking!

Alright, so we've all heard the rumors -- and unfortunately I can't confirm whether or not Star Jones was promptly fed to Rosie O'Donnell immediately following her surprise announcement on The View yesterday; although from what I hear Star hasn't been seen since the show and Rosie was spotted coughing up a hair weave and a size ten Prada shoe with a pricetag still on it.

But that's not the rumor I'm talking about; this one deals with the new Superman's -- shall we say -- alleged preference for other "men of steel."

Superman Returns director Bryan Singer and his neophyte star Brandon Routh have both denied that there's any gay subtext in the new movie; but unlike Singer -- who's openly gay -- Routh has denied his super little ass off that he loves the cock.* Whether or not there's a handgun with the Warner Brothers logo pointed at his temple during these denials, who knows, but with a $200 million dollar investment on the line -- and memories of Batman and Robin still fresh in the WB's head -- it's probably a safe bet.

With that in mind, Brandon Routh's recently released "Celebrity Playlist" on iTunes makes for curiously hilarious reading.

First of all, the guy writes like a fifteen year-old girl -- right down to his affinity for putting exclamation marks after every sentence! Apparently, he can hardly contain himself that Apple has given him the opportunity to relay some of his favorite songs to you! It's a little like watching a Japanese cartoon show, go! He has happy fun cool sexy songs, HA HA!

Thank God they don't make a computer that would've allowed him to dot his "I"s with little smiley faces.

Once you've swallowed that many exclamations (although I seriously doubt Brandon has ever swallowed anything that has a period attached to it) you can move on to the fact that there are three, I repeat THREE references to an amorphous "female" in Brandon's life. In his description of Cake's Love You Madly, he writes, "It always puts me in a good mood and I can't help but think of my girl." For the Foo Fighters' See You, Brandon ups the ante and shows a truly gentlemanly side by saying that the song, "Makes me think of my lady when we're apart."

And if there's still any question in your mind after those declarations, Bran drops all pretense of subtlety and just picks Beck's Girl.

Now you'd think that Warner's army of publicists would at least know that the best way to dispel rumors of their star's homosexuality would NOT be to get Anthony Michael Hall's character from The Breakfast Club to write about his mystery girlfriend who conveniently lives in Niagara Falls.

So, as a courtesy to the people at Warner Brothers -- who I should mention are paid much more than me -- allow me to present my suggestions for "Brandon Routh's Unquestionably Heterosexual iTunes Playlist."

Smack My Bitch Up -- Prodigy
Cheatin' Woman -- Molly Hatchet
I Smell Pussy -- G-Unit
Sex Farm -- Spinal Tap
One in a Million -- Guns N' Roses
Anything from the Afghan Whigs
Ike's Theme -- Ike Turner
Butch -- Imperial Teen
Who's Your Daddy -- Toby Keith
Crazy Bitch -- Buckcherry
Cleveland Rocks -- Presidents of the United States of America
Pimp Juice -- Nelly
Love Gravy -- Chef (this could go either way; of course for all we know so could Brandon)
I Wish I Was Queer So I Could Get Chicks -- Bloodhound Gang
I'm Not Gay -- Saphin

Feel free to add your own!

*Before you start with the hate mail, it's a line from a movie. Blame Kevin Smith, everyone else does.

Hard Times

"It's incredibly obvious isn't it? A foreign substance introduced into our precious bodily fluids... I first became aware of it during the physical act of love. Yes, a profound sense of fatigue... a feeling of emptiness followed. Luckily I was able to interpret these feelings correctly -- loss of essence. I can assure you it has not recurred. Women sense my power and they seek the life essence. I do not avoid women -- but I do deny them my essence."

-- General Jack D. Ripper
Dr. Strangelove

When I heard the news about Rush Limbaugh being busted with Viagra that apparently hadn't been prescribed to him, I first thought about responding by simply writing HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!! until it filled up the entire page. I mean, let's face it -- why bother trying to wax esoteric about the fact that Rush's malfunctioning penis could screw (no pun intended) his plea deal with prosecutors in Florida.

But then I realized that there actually is a bigger (no pun intended again) issue here. These are tough times for the folks on the far-right. Gone are the days when their bullying and bloviation actually worked on most of the American public. Coulter may have finally dug herself a hole she can't get out of; Whether he chooses to admit it or not, O'Reilly's ratings are actually down; and of course the man behind the message -- their messiah, George W. Bush -- is seeing his approval numbers tank.

Maybe Rush's inability to get it up and keep it up is symbolic of the GOP's "loss of essence."

Let's hope these feelings are interpreted correctly.

This can only be the work of the terrorists.

Weekly Reader

Last week I promised to post an excerpt from my book every weekend. I'm going to keep that promise, but I'm going to change the format a little bit. Because the excerpts are so damned long, and tend to push everything else either all the way to the bottom, or off the page entirely, I've started a separate blog. The only posts on that blog will be book segments.

The title of the book is "Blow Up the Outside World" -- taken from the name of the Soundgarden song whose lyrics seemed especially appropriate.

Therefore, the address of the excerpt blog is www.malcontent-outsideworld.blogspot.com.

There's also a link at the top of the links to the right.

The basic story behind the book...

When I woke up in a dark hotel room, pretty much everything that had happened to me up to that point was a blur. I wasn't quite sure where I was. I wasn't quite sure how I'd gotten there. The reason was because I hadn't slept -- really slept -- in more than a month. Somehow though, I must've managed to pass out hard in that hotel room, finally, because when I pulled myself up out of bed, stumbled across the floor and flung the curtains open, my reality hit me like a sledgehammer.

I was staring out at the smoking wreckage of the World Trade Center.

It was September 13th, 2001.

Everything pretty much came back to me then.

Two weeks earlier I had been in rehab in South Florida for a VERY nasty drug addiction. I hadn't slept because I was detoxing and going through the nightmare of early recovery. When I got out of rehab, my wife at the time had left me. I had no job. I had no future. I had nothing. I was staying in the guest room of my parents' home outside Miami, trying to talk myself out of suicide.

When the attacks of September 11th happened, as much as I hate to be postmodern, I thought of the words of Tyler Durden.

It's only after you've lost everything that you're free to do anything.

I took a leap of faith by packing my bags and driving north. My thought was that an opportunity to do something -- anything -- for those who were going through infinitely more pain than I was just might be the only thing that would give me some purpose again and keep me alive. I would've handed out water if I that's what they'd needed.

As it turned out, I got a call from an old friend of mine at NBC who offered to put me to work on the biggest story in American history. It changed my life.

I lived in a hotel for four months -- the same hotel I woke up in that first morning -- I met families who were going through hell. I hope I made some kind of a difference for them. I worked with some of the most talented people in the world. I rebuilt my life during one of the most difficult and unique times in history. America had never seen a time like this, and I used it become a new person.

Strange days indeed.

But that's only half the story -- or actually, only a third.

The story is told in three separate timelines which run concurrently throughout the story. I detail the time leading up to my decision to go into rehab -- when I carpet-bombed my marriage and job in Los Angeles by doing enough drugs to kill an elephant. I also detail my time in rehab -- when I came to the realization that recovery would have to be on my own terms. And of course, there's the period following the attack -- when my entire life changed at the epicenter of 9/11. That tragedy -- shared by millions -- provides a pretty startling backdrop for one very personal story.

Anyway. I've been writing all day dammit. I'm tired. All I can say is, I hope you enjoy.

Oh yeah, and today's excerpt involves an ex, who as it turns out was living in New York at the time of the attack.

And one more thing -- the wife I'm referring to in the story obviously isn't Jayne, the really amazing woman I'm married to now and have written about extensively on this blog. I suppose I'd be giving away the ending if I admitted that it was. Suffice to say that if I had salvaged my marriage with my ex-wife, I probably would've eventually killed myself anyway just for the quiet.

Cheers kids.

So MySpace... My Old Nemesis... We Meet Again

Two perfect examples of why MySpace just sucks. No seriously, it's the fucking worst.

#1) Its corporate owner, Rupert Murdoch, is posed smugly on the cover of this month's Wired magazine. He of course also owns Fox News Channel and is solely to blame for its existence.

#2) It gives people like this access to the rest of us. One look at this trainwreck and you know you're seeing douchebaggery in its purest form. I will seriously give my life savings to anyone who will build Skynet and send the Terminator back through time to kill this kid's mother.

The Gang That Couldn't Bomb Straight

America has enemies, and it faces serious threats from these enemies; anyone who denies this is an idiot.

This indisputable fact, however, is the main reason why this morning's ridiculously absurd dog and pony show in Miami and Washington is so goddamned offensive -- not to mention dangerous.

In case you've been nowhere near a television, radio or bullhorn in the past several hours, the justice department is claiming that it's struck a decisive blow in the war on terror by arresting and indicting the Marx Brothers. Essentially, FBI agents have broken-up a "terror cell" in Miami which it says had sworn allegiance to al-Qaeda and was supposedly planning to blow-up the Sears Tower.

Now when I first heard this, my immediate reaction was that the feds were talking about the Sears Tower in Miami -- a completely worthless landmark right in the middle of the barren crack-den which the chamber of commerce instead calls "Downtown." In fact, I'm still kind of convinced that this was the true intended target of these so-called terrorists. The reason I say this is because -- as I would've expected when I heard the words "terrorists" and "Miami" in the same sentence -- it's obvious that these idiots couldn't blow-up a fucking balloon. It would be pretty much par for the course for these guys to believe that destroying an empty building would strike fear into the heart of America.

For the most part, the group is comprised of Haitians and Cubans; and while certainly a fine representation of the entire population of Miami, they're NOT the folks you'd expect to see taking part in any kind of anti-American activity that didn't involve rallying in front of the immigration office. Ironically, Haitians actually do have a legitimate beef with this country. The staggering inequity of the policy which allows them to be turned around at sea and shipped back to hell, while others just sail right in, is definitely worth getting angry over. The Cuban culture, meanwhile, has produced some of the most inept terrorists in history -- thing is, they've only terrorized Cuba, which is why our government has never actually referred to them as terrorists. Still, it's doubtful that either of these groups would ever pose a significant threat to this country.

So why all the excessive back-patting and self-congratulation from Alberto Gonzalez and company?

Is it really all that cynical at this point -- given all we've seen and heard -- to once again question the timing and motive of this "important victory in the war on terror?" How many times has the Attorney General, the Department of Homeland Security or the FBI rode in like the goddamned cavalry to save Bush's ass when his poll numbers drop or bad news slides across his desk?

This is dangerous not because these bumbling morons might've been planning to bring America to its knees by driving their cabs simultaneously into a Burger King, but because most of us have become so jaded and suspicious of asinine news conferences warning that the sky is falling, that we WILL NOT believe the real threat when it happens. This my friends is why our president has become so alarmingly handicapped -- because we simply don't believe him anymore. It's a crisis of faith that only gets worse everytime the U.S. officials whose job it is to protect us, trot out yet another life-threatening scenario that probably isn't.

Whether or not we really ARE being bullshitted no longer matters.

Oh, and by the way -- we're often reminded of the "quiet victories" in the war on terror; the ones that we don't hear about; the ones that prove how this administration's policies and tactics really are keeping us all safer. Dwell on this: if the justice department trumpets the arrest of a couple of Haitians playing cowboys-and-terrorists down in Miami, don't you think sombody REALLY dangerous would be given his own presidential address in fucking primetime? Nothing that makes the White House look good is done "quietly."

Sleep soundly America. You're in good hands.

And once again we raise the nation's Cynicism Alert Level to red.

The Tao of Keith

Keith Olbermann has a reputation -- one that's fairly well-known throughout the television news business.

We've all heard the stories; they're the stuff of legend.

He's impossible. He's unbalanced. He's a nightmare. He's completely fucking nuts.

Well guess what? None of it matters. None of it. The reason is because when the lights come up and the camera comes on, Keith Olbermann becomes one of the smartest, funniest and most talented people on television. His show, "Countdown," is not only the lone bright spot on MSNBC's otherwise painfully dismal lineup, it's the best news show on television. Period. Whether or not you agree with Keith's obviously left-of-center politics, his show provides an essential counterbalance to the legion of media out there who are content to either be complicit in forwarding the agenda of those in power, or worse, to simply sit back and do nothing.

Translation: he picked up a rifle when the rest of us abandoned our posts.

In its best moments, Countdown shocks viewers with its willingness to do stories and take positions that other newscasts won't, often for the reasons I described in a previous post (Journalist, Defend Thyself, June 7th, 2006). Olbermann wears his passion and his politics on his sleeve, and does so with an appropriate amount of razor-sharp wit and, occasionally, unapologetic outrage. His constant prodding, berating and exposing of the guy who shares his time-slot at the other end of the dial -- Bill O'Reilly -- is a joy to watch. Somebody's gotta do it, and Keith does it so very, very well. Detractors always revel in pointing out that O'Reilly's ratings are higher, as if this fact is somehow proof of the quality of his show. It's not. Britney Spears has sold a lot more records than Queens of the Stone Age; it doesn't mean she doesn't still suck.

There's a reason Olbermann signs off nightly by using the words of Edward R. Murrow -- "Good night, and good luck." For the time being at least, he seems to be the only one who remembers what Murrow stood for and fought for. He's not afraid to stir the pot. Bottom line: Countdown has balls, and lately it's pissed some people off. There's an almost irrefutable correlation between Olbermann taking a certain amount of shit, and the reversal of fortune for the present administration, specifically as it applies to its folly in Iraq.

I once heard that you can judge someone by the enemies he makes; I also happen to know that in the world of TV, if you're not a threat, you'll simply be ignored. If people are bothering to talk about you -- to respond to you -- then you're on their radar.

Hence why it was so gratifying and amusing to get a look at an interesting little exchange that took place last week. Basically, it revolved around a series of e-mails sent back and forth between Olbermann and two right-wing critics who decided to poke him with a stick. Lloyd Grove, a gossip columnist here in New York, and a guy who can always be counted on to provide excellent housebreaking material for that new puppy, giddily published the e-mails for all to see. His intention it seems was to expose Olbermann as a rampaging hot-head while simultaneously shocking readers with the heretofore unknown revelation that adults sometimes use foul language.

It apparently started with an e-mail from the unknown antagonists (Notably, Grove wouldn't print their names) in which they taunted Olbermann by saying that dead al Qaeda terrorist Abu Musab al-Zarqawi was obviously his "hero." It was just the kind of juvenile crap you'd expect to hear from the few Bush supporters left these days.

Olbermann could've -- and many say should've -- blown it off; but he didn't. His e-mail reply?

"Hey, save the oxygen for somebody whose brain can use it. Kill yourself."

Over a period of God-knows-how-long, Olbermann responded to the continued abuse by asking his unknown tormentors if they were "still watching that evil fuck O'Reilly?" and by telling them at one point, "Go fuck your mother."

Okay... was his reaction kind of immature and ill-advised? Yes. In fact, after the exchange went public, Olbermann was forced to issue an apology, saying, "I should not have replied to these... hateful e-mails, but I wonder how many of us could receive literally hundreds of them, questioning our patriotism, religion and ethnic origin, without succumbing to the natural wish to confront such hate." The fact that he "succumbed" from his official NBC e-mail address didn't help matters.

But was it wrong?

We've all heard about the dangers of what happens when we allow ourselves to surrender the position of moral authority. We've listened to mom say, "Don't stoop to their level." We've watched Tubbs convince Crockett not to shoot the murderous bastard he has at the end of his gun, saying, "Don't do it man, he's not worth it." We'd like to believe that taking the high road is, without exception, preferable to getting into a shouting match, or a fist fight, or a battle of obscene e-mails. Well, sometimes it is -- and sometimes is isn't. Sometimes the high road leads to a cliff.

One of the biggest problems with those under attack by the Cult of Bush, is that they've kept deathly quiet in comparison to their antagonists. I can only assume that this is because they're still believing the words of mom. They're still listening to Tubbs's voice telling them that their enemy just isn't worth it. They feel that they're above that kind of anger and frustration. In some ways, their silence only proves what their attackers are saying about them -- that they consider themselves to be too elite and too pristine to be able to engage in the kind of shouting and name-calling which the average Joe understands so well. They spend too much time thinking, and not enough time decisively acting. No matter how hard you try, you can't make avoidance look decisive.

But Olbermann did something that I've been waiting for someone with a forum to do for months -- he stepped off the pedestal and got his hands dirty. Good idea or not, he stopped taking it and told them to fuck off.

Chalk this up to his alleged psychosis all you want; maybe more people should do what he did.

After all, what did you think when Crockett didn't shoot that son-of-a-bitch?

World Cup, Days Twelve and Thirteen

Once again, the African teams keep things interesting. Hell of a comeback.

CIV 3, SCG 2

Meanwhile, England draws but loses Owen in the process.

Eng 2, Swe 2

But hey, how 'bout that Heat!

Hips Don't Lie... But They Do Suck

Okay, so I caught a minor amount of crap from friends and readers for my little tirade against MySpace.

Thankfully, the contrived outrage wasn't directed at my opinion of the website itself or its evil creator, Tom -- had it been, I would've ignored it completely -- but moreso at my supposedly inhumane treatment of an old high school friend. You'll remember his name was Carlos and that I ran into him at my ten year high school reunion. You'll also remember that I took the position that his willingness to state without so much as a hint of shame or irony that he was still an avid follower of our current high school football team constituted a, shall we say, lack of personal growth on his part. I believe my exact words were, "get a goddamned life."

Well, a few people took offense to this. Through comment, e-mail and personal interaction, they were kind enough to once again remind me that I'm an arrogant, unappreciative asshole. I can deal with this. My usual reaction to statements like these is to simply raise my eyebrows, nod and smirk a little -- my face conveying something between pitiful recognition and accepted helplessness.

But I also got called a racist and a bigot by a couple of people.

I can only assume this is because Carlos's name would lead one to rightly conclude that he's Hispanic.

My first thought was to respond to the accusations with a couple of Mexican jokes, but that's only because I really am kind of a jerk. Instead though, I got to thinking about the taboo subject of race and ethnicity in this country. I say taboo because even though we pretend to talk about prejudice, it seems like we never really do. It's the one subject that's truly too delicate to handle with anything but kid gloves. What we get instead are half-hearted platitudes from some, and self-righteous bloviation from others. There's so much rhetoric on both sides of the debate that after awhile it seems as if there's no debate at all.

So in the spirit of increased understanding, I'm just going to say what's on my mind.

I really fucking hate that Shakira song, "Hips Don't Lie;" and I think it's kind of racist.

I'll explain why in a second; first, let me go ahead and address the whole Carlos thing. I can't help but think that a good number of the people who criticized my comments about him did so because they made instant judgments about the respective quality of his and my life growing up. I'm also betting that these judgments were, for lack of a better word, racist. Being that I now live in Manhattan and work in television, they no doubt assumed that I led a charmed life growing up. Being that Carlos may still be working with his Dad tiling floors, they no doubt also assumed that he spent his childhood eating Alpo. The funny thing is, no one would be willing to admit it -- but I have a sneaking suspicion that part of that false assumption comes solely from the impression of Carlos as a downtrodden, undereducated minority -- a victim who needs to be defended in the face of the affluent white prick. And people call ME liberal.

The reality of course couldn't be further from the scenario I just described. I'm from Miami, and for those who've never been lucky enough to visit the place where all the crap in America flows to, let me clue you in: Cuban-Americans own and operate the city, top to bottom. Carlos isn't a minority. Not by a fucking long shot. He came from an upper-middle class family who set down roots in Hialeah years ago and have found their fortune in this country. His father ran, and probably still runs, a very successful business of his own. His mother was a real-estate agent. Like anyone in Miami over the age of 60, His grandfather sat around bitching about the bearded devil 200 miles to the south and waxing nostalgic about the beauty of Cuba before the revolution -- he also kicked my car when I parked on the lawn, the fucker. The fact is, Carlos's life as a teenager was as good, if not better than mine. Truth be told, that's why I had a problem with him spending his adulthood sitting on his ass in Miami watching Pace High football. He talked about going places. He had every resource and opportunity, and yet took none; proof that the small-town "I'll get out of here someday" mentality, mixed with complete emotional stasis exists, even in a big city.

I find it funny though that some people assumed otherwise about him -- and I know they did. I think that's what my mother used to refer to as "judging a book by its cover."

Something you should know about me: I believe that there's value in judging a book by its cover. There's a calculated reason that the cover of a book looks the way it does. It's there to give readers an idea of what's inside; to be a logical and natural extension of its contents. If you see a book cover with a handgun and a target on it, with Washington DC in the background -- it's probably safe to assume that the story inside involves suspense and intrigue. If you see a picture of Fabio, you gotta figure the book's a romance. If you see the name Greg Behrendt and the words, "He's Just Not That Into You," you know it's ridiculous and cynical crap written by an unfunny hack and churned out for really fucking stupid women. Fact is though, there are elements of your personal "cover" which can't be changed. Your race can't be changed (unless you're Michael Jackson). Your age can't be adjusted (unless you're Joan Rivers). Your physical characteristics generally are what they are. A person should never be judged on these things.

BUT... if you're black, you can choose to dress like a hip-hop thug. If you're a young girl, you can choose to wear tiny skirts, a bellybutton-ring and midriff-bearing tops. Guess what though -- if you make choices like these, you forfeit the right to bitch when people make natural assumptions about who you are as a person. I'm not saying it's fair. In a perfect world, maybe everyone would be so fully actualized that there would be no prejudice. But you're not living in a perfect world, and ignoring the fact that there are certain consequences to the image you choose to project is just irresponsible and goddamned stupid.

Case in point: I have tattoos. Several. I don't pitch a fit when some people think I'm some kind of serial killer. I don't call them ignorant for not being able to see through to the "real me." I knew what I was signing-on for when I got the fucking things. I accept the consequences of my actions. Maybe I'll prove to them that guys with tattoos are actually quite nice.

Okay, I'm back now after taking a five minute laugh break.

Another thing I've come to believe -- though I try not to prejudge based on race or ethnicity -- is that stereotypes exist for a reason, and that many of them are fucking true. Not across the board, of course. But there's a REASON they became stereotypes. No one woke up one morning and said, "From now on, I'm gonna think of all Italian guys as track-suit and gold-chain wearing, pasta-eating, Vitalis-using, bad-suit owning, Mafia capos." Post hoc ergo propter hoc folks. The reality was there before the image. It created it, and some could easily argue that it now perpetuates it, creating an endless cycle that eventually turns stereotype into archetype. Incidentally, I'm Italian. I know plenty of people who fit the aforementioned description perfectly. Somewhere along the line, there were enough Jews who were thrifty, enough blacks who enjoyed fried chicken and enough Russian women who gave really great hand-jobs at Midtown bars... wait, that's not well known?

Which finally brings me back to Shakira and her God-awful song. I knew I could somehow pull that off.

I realize that I just said that stereotypes exist for a reason, but I also know that most of society frowns on them regardless. So why in the hell doesn't somebody complain that just about every Latin "Singing Sensation" tries to perpetuate the idea that Hispanics don't give a shit about music unless they can shake their asses to it? Isn't THAT mildly offensive? Shakira's a gorgeous woman, with a great voice. She's also made some really decent music. But her new song once again seems to remind the masses that Latinos only value music in proportion to how well they can dance to it. Maybe it's just that I did actually grow up in Miami, which means that I still have post-traumatic stress disorder whenever I hear Miami Sound Machine, but I have to think that somewhere out there, there's a group of sad, rhythm-deficient Hispanics who feel the same way about this, that Asians with no math skills feel about THAT particular stereotype.

Oh, and, add Wyclef Jean to the mix and you literally have the worst song in the history of recorded music.

Anyway, the true test of this post -- this airing of my opinion, free of any intended offense or venom -- will be the reaction. What will I be called this time?

I guess I shouldn't get into what I think about the idea of using the term "The N Word" in discussions about racism instead of just saying the actual word itself. So much for being adults.

Like I said, kid gloves.

Today's Words of Wisdom

"Men become civilized not in proportion to their willingness to believe, but in proportion to their readiness to doubt."

-- H.L. Mencken

World Cup, Day Eleven

The Saudis eat sand.

Ukr 4, Sau 0

In a related item -- after a classified phone call from Saudi Prince Bandar, President Bush announced that we're invading the Ukraine.

World Cup, Days Nine & Ten

A hell of a weekend.

First of all, God bless Ghana for providing a much-needed Cinderella story. Good for them.

Gha 2; Cze 0

Secondly, the US finally showed up, and managed to do the seemingly impossible -- hold the Italians to a draw with only nine players (nevermind that Italy scored our one goal for us).

USA 1, Ita 1

Alright, once again, SOMEBODY PLEASE STOP BRAZIL. Look, I get it -- their game is on an entirely different level. They're artful and poetic. There's no denying it. But they're the fucking Yankees of soccer -- only with infinitely worse dental work. Speaking of which, if one more announcer expounds on Ronaldinho's "joyous, childlike smile," I'm gonna climb a clock tower. Of course he's smiling; he's anywhere besides the slum of a country he calls home. They're right though, children do smile like that -- mentally retarded children.

And don't even get me started on the fans; a group of people who look like a bizzare genetic experiment gone horribly awry -- one that fused the Latin American chapter of the Shakira fan club with an especially acid-addled group of dead-heads.

Bra 2, Aus 0

And then there's the French. Jesus, what happened to these guys? Thank God for Thierry Henry -- whom I bow to anyway because I'm an Arsenal fan -- but they should've made short work of the Koreans. Instead we get a draw. Guys, this is no way to prove how superior you are to the rest of us.

Fra 1, Kor 1

Brit Happens

Set the Way-Back machine for just after September 11th, 2001.

Remember all that talk from the media -- and everyone else for that matter -- about how "everything had changed." "Things would never be the same." Our worship of all things trivial and fucking inane would be wiped clean by the blood of 3,000+.

Uh-huh.

Now watch NBC and Matt Lauer perform the journalistic equivalent of giving head in the bathroom of a bus-station by devoting an entire hour to a one-on-one interview with Britney Spears.

Best moment: Lauer asks her how she feels about some people calling her a "redneck" (because he can't say "white trash"), which is a hilarious question, given that she spends the entire hour loudly chewing gum.

Yep, the world is now a better place.

Jay-Z/Cristal: Collision Course

A few years back, during the truly dark days of stupidity in this country -- I'm speaking of course of the Lead-Up-To-Iraq/"Freedom Fries" era -- I remember stopping to notice a car whose bumper proudly proclaimed "Boycott France!" At the time, it was a pretty popular sentiment, and one which jingoistic jerks like Bill O'Reilly were happily perpetuating.

Here's the thing though: this particular bumper belonged to a 1991 Ford Taurus that was in, shall we say, less than pristine condition.

Now sure, it's possible that the owner of the car -- realizing that he personally couldn't possibly have a dog in this fight -- was encouraging the more well-to-do folks who might find themselves on the road behind him (those that weren't dodging his muffler anyway) to pick up the mantle that he could not. Win one for the Gipper so to speak.

Or it could be that the car's owner was in fact David Cross, or someone with an equal appreciation for the hilarious nature of irony.

But no, in the end, all I could come back to was the thought that the driver of the '91 Taurus truly believed that he could, in fact, help to bring an entire country of culturally-elite snobs to their weak little knees by... well... not eating french fries.

"Oh yeah Cletus, the fucking French are just shaking in their boots that you've cancelled your order for the case of Chateau D'Yquem '76 and decided NOT to take the family on that vacation in Cannes."

Welcome to America -- land of completely ineffectual gestures that require no real effort aside from spending a dollar on a bumper sticker.

Now as it turns out, Bill O'Reilly and his ilk have something in common with -- of all people -- Jay-Z. Both have called for a boycott of French products. Jay's ire is slightly more focused though; he's got a problem (one of his 99?) with Cristal champagne. The rap mogul says that the erstwhile official beverage of hip-hop's elite will not be served in his club, nor at any of his parties. This after Louis Roederer's managing director basically dissed Jay better than Nas ever did. Roederer is the parent company which owns Cristal, and when asked about the champagne's popularity with those who lyrically tout their allegiance to all things bling, Frederic Rouzaud said, "We can't forbid people from buying it. I'm sure Dom Perignon or Krug would be delighted to have their business."

Ooooh, snap!

Time to bring it down to basics...

Ok, so it's easy to knock the French. They're elitist assholes; but they're not dumb -- they know full well that pissing off a couple of rappers isn't going to hurt their worldwide take... not one bit. In fact, while Jay is busy shouting from the rooftops that Rouzaud's comments are racist in and of themselves, he's probably missing the larger and in fact more insulting aspect of what the Frenchman is saying. If you gave him the benefit of the doubt, you could argue that he has no problem with black people -- just semi-illiterate neanderthals who, when they're not talking about killing people, are pretending that class is something you can buy. There's merit to this. Rappers never talk about a good scotch, even though that would carry equal if not more heft in the refinement department. That's because it's not about refinement; it's about show. It's about proving that you're no longer the kid from the projects and goddamnit, you're gonna be respected. The most obtuse way to command that kind of respect: champagne and jewelry -- the more obvious, the better. What Rouzaud's implying though, is a complete attack on that way of thinking. He's saying that no matter how much money they make, rappers will never "arrive." They'll never be part of the ruling class.

Chris Rock once said that the reason for this is "rims" -- and he's absolutely right; the worship of expensive champagne proves it.

Meanwhile, for the French, champagne IS about refinement, and not about excess. Hence why Rouzaud's comments are so condescending. He knows rappers just don't get it. There's a Zen-like quality to true class; if you have to talk about it, you don't have it.

I like Jay; as rappers go he's got talent -- which unfortunately means that he can do slightly more than make two fucking words rhyme. Still, his stand against Cristal is about as worthless as a Vanilla Ice beat. The unfortunate fact is that he holds sway (no pun intended) over far too small a group to make a real statement, and much of that group can't afford the stuff anyway. That's not a "dis" -- simply a fact. The Cristal people know this.

If it makes him feel better though, Jay should know that I for one won't be drinking any Cristal in the near future.

World Cup, Day Eight

Jesus, the last time the Serbs took a beating like that, NATO jets were involved.

Arg 6, Ser 0

World Cup, Day Seven

Rule Britannia!

Eng 2, Tri 0

England advances... and Rooney returns!

A Follow-Up Now...

Oh I just love it when something comes along that's so spectacularly awesome that I couldn't improve upon it comedically if I tried.

Turns out the crafty 16 year old Michigan girl who managed to fly all the way to the Middle-East to meet a guy she'd connected with on MySpace.com, was in fact flying there to marry him. So says -- are you ready for this -- the distraught family-members of the would-be groom, all of whom SHOWED UP AT THE AIRPORT TO MEET THE KID.

In an interview, the groom's heartbroken mother said, "She was going to sign a marriage contract as soon as she got here... She wanted to convert to Islam and wear the head covering and live with us and adopt our culture."

These kids. Last year she wanted to go on tour with Fall Out Boy -- this year she wants to live in a war-zone and swear eternal subservience to Allah and her husband.

I just can't get the image out of my head of the family, waiting there at the end of the airport concourse, holding a little sign that says "Infidel."

World Cup, Day Six

ZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ

I (Stab) New York

A 21 year old tourist from Houston, Texas was stabbed this afternoon while standing on a subway platform with his girlfriend.

It happened for no apparent reason.

Welcome to New York kid.

MySpace, The Final Frontier... For Idiots

There's this kid I used to know back in high school. His name was Carlos. Nice guy. I wouldn't have called us best friends, but as high school slackers are sometimes prone to do -- that being indiscriminately flock to each other -- we didn't give a second thought to hanging out in the same group on occasion. We'd have a couple of beers, which at that time still carried the unmistakably great taste of both novelty and parental prohibition; We'd steal parking meters from the lots along Miami Beach; We'd go to Fire & Ice, which at that time was the only decent alternative club in Miami. We'd wait in line all night for concert tickets when the band was worth it; We'd make fun of, well, everybody; We'd generally revel in the complete lack of any discernable responsibility other than to simply "show up" to life.

I'll never deny that those were damn good times.

At my ten year high school reunion, I ran into Carlos again, gave him a hug and tried not to spill my drink on him. He told me he was working for his father's home tiling business -- which as far as I was concerned was a far more noble vocational endeavor than what seemed to be the stand-by/fall-back profession of most male members of my graduating class: Hialeah or City of Miami cop. A few minutes of down time with the student body of Pace High School's class of '87 and you'd understand that these miscreants should barely be on this side of prison bars themselves, much less be handed a Glock and the badge that allows them to use it. I'm sure the notion of that hair-trigger weapon at their side, free meals at Denny's, a steady paycheck and the opportunity to harass black people with impunity won many a former delinquent over to the side of law and order.

Carlos and I did the nostalgia thing for a few minutes, and then he said something that I didn't quite understand because it seemed apropos of nothing.

"You know, our football team is really great this year."

I stood there for a moment, sure that the look of utter bemusement on my face would carry enough insult to drive him away in disgust. What the hell was he talking about? The Dolphins? That was impossible, seeing as how I had distinctly heard him use the words "really great," and not "fucking suck like no team has ever sucked before." I don't remember him going to UM with me, but I guess that as a lot of folks in Miami do, he could very well have adpoted them as his own and formed enough of a personal relationship with them in his mind that he saw nothing wrong with using a personal pronoun.

And then it hit me; he was talking about OUR team. Our school's team. Our high school football team. Our CURRENT high school football team.

"Uh, really? You still follow Pace football?" I said.
"Yeah man, we've got a great quarterback this year. Dude, Remember Javier? He's the assistant coach these days."
"That's --" oh dear fucking God think of something decent and cordial "-- really great. Glad to hear that. I'm gonna go to the bar... and stay there."

Almost ten years later, as I approach my twenty year reunion, my point is this: I have no burning desire to hear from Carlos ever again. I didn't really feel much of a yearning to in the time before that ten year watermark. I feel the same way about most people from my distant past. There are a select few I've lost contact with that wish I hadn't, but for the most part those I wanted to remain close to, I have. I've kept in touch the way millions have for years -- through personal contact, the telephone, and more recently, e-mail.

If I haven't seen you in a very long time, chances are there's a good reason for it.

Another symbol of high school that I never felt the need to relive at any point in my adulthood, was the adolescent rite of passage that came with the signing of yearbooks. Yes, I get it. BFF and all that shit. Remember when, and let's hope we never lose touch. The way I decorate my yearbook and personalize it tells the world just who I am. It's a form of artistic expression!

Sure thing Da Vinci.

But now as it turns out, this late in my life, the two main benefits I had hoped to reap from growing up -- ignoring my past and doing away with teenage fucking idiocy -- have been put asunder in one fell swoop and in high-tech fashion, all by a guy I've never met. His name is Tom.

Tom wants to be my friend. He wants to be your friend. He wants to be the world's friend. So far he seems to be succeeding. 72 million people and counting have taken him up on his seemingly innocuous Mister-Rogers-cum-Weezer-fan offer. I however believe that Tom's true identity and mission have yet to be revealed. Simply put, he is Satan, the Prince of Darkness -- and he intends to enslave all mankind.

He's doing it via the use of his insidious creation -- the most cunning and nefarious invention to come to prominence in the early days of the 21st century: MySpace.

In deference to the three people who don't currently inhabit a "virtual apartment" on MySpace.com -- it's essentially a place on-line where you can instantly have access to all those people you do your best to ignore or forget about every day. It's where millions flaunt their individuality by going to the same website. It's where teens try and pick up teens; adults try and pick up teens; and bands try and get teens to buy their crappy music. It's where you can debate the great moral and social issues of our time, like who was better, Biggie or Tupac. First and foremost though, it's where you can gather "friends" like fucking Pokemon cards; Tom -- he of the goofy smile and aw-shucks persona -- being the first new friend to say "Howdy!"

Over the last couple of months, the site has come under fire not for its very existence -- which I think is a mortal sin in and of itself -- but for the way some are using it; It's a veritable on-line petting zoo for pedophiles. Just last week a story broke about a 16 year old Michigan girl who met a West Bank man on MySpace, then lied to her parents to get a passport which allowed her to fly to the Middle-East to meet him. I won't even get into how goddamned clueless two adults have to be to let themselves be outfoxed by someone who more than likely dots her "I"s with hearts and speaks in teen cellphone text code. A wiley one that kid. Either way, this is just the latest bad publicity for MySpace, but this is America and I'm not one to blame Tom for the way some have chosen to abuse this great power he's given them. You can't blame Albert Einstein for Harry Truman's itchy trigger finger and love of the warm glow of mushroom clouds.

No, I actually think MySpace's far more insipid transgression is its knack for turning scores of otherwise normal adults with jobs, responsibilities, families -- LIVES -- into the idiot kids you used to hate in high school for wasting so much time and effort putting together what they truly believed would be their ultimate legacy: their "Slam Books." MySpace isn't destroying our kids. They're allowed to be stupid -- they're young and don't know any better. It's destroying our adults, by turning them back INTO kids.

Now I know what you're thinking, "But come on, it's just a little fun -- and it's a great way to hook up with old friends."

I promise you that this will be the last thing you think just before Tom flips the switch and sends the subliminal signal through the broadband and phone lines, ordering you to put on your Silver Shamrock halloween masks and watch the computer monitor... WATCH. WATCH CLOSELY.

Besides, think for a minute about how you react to the guy who wanders around the party trying to cozy up to everybody and be his or her friend. That's the guy you usually want to punch in the fucking face, right? Now multiply that party by the population of the entire planet.

That's Tom.

Fuck MySpace, and while I'm at it -- fuck Pace Football. Grow up and get a goddamned life Carlos.

World Cup, Day Five

Dear God I fucking hate Brazil. Somebody please beat those bastards.

Bra 1, Cro 0

Meanwhile the French continue their valiant quest to never score another goal at a World Cup.

Fra 0, Swi 0

Life of Brain

I'm out of Vicodin. This could be a problem.

Now before anyone starts thinking that my resemblance to TV's Dr. House extends to a years-long addiction to painkillers, I should probably mention something that I've neglected to up until now.

A little over a month ago, I had brain surgery; had a tumor the size of a pinball removed in fact.

I realize that some who've read my past posts will now nod their heads in recognition, saying to themselves "Ah, that explains it." Understand though that the personality that I've exhibited on the computerized pages of this little experiment of mine is the same personality I've had all my life. I've always been this way. Probably always will be. See what a childhood spent idolizing Bugs Bunny and Hawkeye Pierce gets you? Unfortunately though, I can't truthfully say that the surgery has had no serious effects on me -- nor can I say that these effects won't last for quite some time.

Today was my first day back at work after a two-month medical leave.

Maybe it would be best if I rewind a little, knock chronology for a loop like a Tarantino movie.

The first week of April, I noticed the first tremors of a headache. They began the morning after an exceptional dinner here in New York with Drew Curtis of Fark.com. My first thought was that Drew had once again poured so much great wine down the throats of myself, my wife and everyone else at the damned table that I was simply nursing the appropriate hangover. A little sleep, a couple of aspirin and I'd be fine. Except that I wasn't. I woke up the next morning with my head pounding even harder. The pain was fucking excruciating. In deference to T.S. Eliot, in short I was afraid.

I made it through about an hour of work before going home and trying desperately to sleep. Not a chance. That night was without question the worst 12 hours of my life -- and I've sat through David Lynch's "Dune." I felt like something was trying to claw its way out of my head by gouging out my eyes from the inside. For awhile I remembered a story I saw about a guy whose sinuses were riddled with strep bacteria, and in a matter of days it had eaten away his face. I honestly figured that was what was happening to me.

I didn't sleep for one minute that night. I spent the entire time crying and counting the hours and minutes until I could go to the doctor.

I have bad sinuses to begin with, so I chalked the immense pain up to a nightmarish infection or case of sinusitis. The next morning at 9am sharp I was at my doctor. It's worth mentioning by the way that at the time, my wife and I lived in Brooklyn and the closest hospital to our apartment provided the kind of care you might've recognized if you'd ever seen the movie "Jacob's Ladder" -- hence why I didn't go to the emergency room. One bad experience there for Jayne was enough to steer me clear. Either way, when I arrived at my doctor's office in Lower Manhattan, the nurses literally thought that I was trying to milk the office for good painkillers, as some are apt to do on occasion. They found it hard to believe that the crumpled pile in the waiting room could really be as messed up as he purported to be. A CT scan and a bottle of codeine capsules later, still no answer as to what was causing the headache.

It took three days of still unabated, gut-wrenching agony before I could get in for an MRI.

It took the technician conducting the MRI about thirty seconds to figure out what was wrong with me.

"You have a brain tumor, and it's hemorraging into your head." He told me; even drawing a crude sketch to show me just where the tumor was -- directly between my eyes, resting on my pituitary gland. I was in the emergency room at Cornell Medical Center about an hour later, fetally curled up on a rolling bed, begging someone to please turn the fucking lights off. Over a period of about two hours, they readied me for surgery and walked me through exactly what needed to be done to remove this alien egg from my brain. As far as everyone was concerned, I was going to be cut open and it was coming out that night. That was the thinking anyway -- until God showed up.

I realize that a lot of debate has raged throughout the centuries over the exact name of God. The Hebrews called him Yahweh; The Muslims, Almighty Allah; The Christians, the Lord Our God -- or simply "I am who am." As it turns out, his name is actually Ted. Okay, so I have no idea if that's his nickname. It may very well be Theo for all I know, as that sounds far more scholarly.

Dr. Theodore Schwartz walked into my room like Elvis taking the stage in Vegas. The guy just owned it. He grabbed my chart and my MRI, asked me how I was doing and got a couple of pained mumbles out of me, then basically told me that the plan had changed. As it turned out, I was the perfect candidate for the kind of surgery which he performed exclusively -- that being minimally-invasive endoscopic tumor resection. Translation: they go in through your nose instead of opening your skull like a tuna can. Who was I to argue.

For the next couple of weeks I was on platelets to stop the bleeding, steroids to shrink the fucker and vicodin to kill the pain; all the while concerning myself day and night with the upcoming surgery which could -- despite the "minimally-invasive" reassurance -- leave me permanently stroked out and drooling on myself while the government fought to keep a feeding tube jammed down my throat. I wasn't scared, I was fucking petrified. I spent my nights watching my wife sleep, trying to accumulate as much of this simple experience as I could in the hope that it might somehow stay with me should my world suddenly go dark and everything I know to be me slip away into oblivion. I prayed -- yes, prayed -- not to survive or remain the person I'd always been, but rather to hold onto her image and keep it with me wherever it was that I went. I wanted these moments to be the trail of breadcrumbs that I could somehow use to get back to her.

She was the last thing I thought of as I went under.

There is no darkness by the way. No peaceful fade to black. There's just a complete excising of a period of time. A jarring, faster-than-light hyper-jump. One flash of white and I was in ICU -- choking on a nosebleed and seeing my wife, family and nurses through a fish-eye lense. I was alive though. The operation was a success. They got it -- and got it all.

My few days in the hospital were eye-opening in ways I'll explain at a later time. There are too many intimate intricacies to get into right now.

For the past month I've spent most of my time indoors, hence the creation of this blog as a way to pass the time and keep my mind somewhat active -- although some readers might argue that the amount of brain power I've used here has been negligible. I've seen a lot of doctors in an effort to regulate the hormone levels which the alien egg threw completely out of whack by destroying a good portion of my pituitary gland. My body does things that no one younger than Bea Arthur's lesbian lover can fully understand. I've taken a lot of pills. A lot. I've suffered through three infections which required fluid to be drained from around my eye, two back teeth to be pulled, and my stomach area to be treated for shingles. I've played a lot of games of Black and Hitman: Blood Money (a helpful tip: it's more fun when you just kill everyone in sight).

Which brings me back to the present. I'm not fine. I don't much feel like myself these days, but I never lose sight of how much worse things could've been and could still be right now.

I'll take hot flashes over years of physical and mental therapy any day.

I'm humbled and grateful, and glad to be back at work -- and especially glad that I never had to use those breadcrumbs, although I'll never regret having had them with me.

Come to think of it, I still keep them close to my heart.

World Cup, Dark Day

Shit.

Cze 3, USA 0

Breaking News

Dan Abrams has apparently been named General Manager of MSNBC.

In a related item, Morris the Cat has been named CEO of the Purina Corporation.

Distractions

I could write. I really could. I could take the time to sit down and compose something decent.

Or I could watch Robot Chicken and then go to bed with my wife (see above).

Which would you choose?

Yeah, I'll even skip Robot Chicken.

Ten bucks says this gets more comments than anything else.

World Cup, Interlude

I love Tommy Smyth. Not only is he a great announcer -- putting aside the fact that he sounds as if he spends his spare time trying to stop those kids from getting his Lucky Charms -- but he has a real passion for the game.

That said, is it my imagination or does he occasionally make comments that make him seem like Pepper Brooks, the Jason Bateman character from "Dodgeball?"