Heaven Help You (Because Nobody Down Here Will)

I'd love to find the most sensitive and articulate way to broach this subject, being that it's one that has the unique and inherent ability to get me called all kinds of not-very-nice names. I have a feeling though, that as with all discussions of this particular topic, there will be no avoiding a certain amount of disastrous misunderstanding and bitter rebuttal.

Oh well -- whatever.

Now that a week's worth of media genuflection is coming to a close in honor of the first anniversary of Hurricane Katrina (not to be confused with the week's worth of media hand-wringing in the wake of the John Mark Karr fiasco), I'm left to ponder a couple of questions. They're questions not so much about the coverage as about the people being covered; those whose lives were so hideously affected by Katrina, and those who have -- through obligation or a simple desire to do good -- taken it upon themselves to help the desperate and needy. I would never dare insult anyone willing to step forward with a helping hand in a time of need, but for some reason there is one inarguable curiosity which has made itself clear in the aftermath of this massive storm which deserves a closer examination, or at the very least a raised eyebrow or two.

Obviously, Katrina shined a very bright light on the disparity of treatment between rich and poor in this country -- moreso I believe than simply black and white. Yet the racial makeup of those affected is playing a major part in just who's helping in the rebuilding effort, how they're helping, and why.

Eariler in the week, I watched an interview with Bruce Gordon, the president of the NAACP, as he rightly bemoaned the lack of governmental support for the reconstruction effort in New Orleans's devastated Lower 9th Ward. As he walked through a neighborhood that looked frighteningly like pictures of Hiroshima in the days after the bomb was dropped, he spoke of the need for others to take up the mantle of responsibility for putting the pieces back together again. Mentioned in the first few words out of his mouth: the church.

So perhaps, putting all the verbosity aside, my question is as simple as this: why do Black Americans -- especially the underprivileged -- seem to consistently turn to the church for help in solving their problems?

You might be tempted at this point to open that thesaurus and begin looking for as many synonyms for "asshole" as you can find to pepper your comment with, but please understand that this observation doesn't come from upper-class whitey, sitting on-high, rebuking all the little people and their immature ways; it's a legitimate question which I've wondered about for quite some time.

Years ago, when I was a producer at a Miami television station, there was a local boy who became somewhat of a cause celebre. I can't remember his name for the life of me, but his actions are rather unforgettable: by the ripe old age of eleven, he had a rap sheet taller than he was -- a fact which our reporters and others in the market delighted in pointing out, then parroting ad nauseum. The boy -- who happened to be black -- was pretty much on his way to juvenile detention, then inevitably to jail for life -- until someone stepped in to take him under his wing and hopefully show him another way. That man was Jesus. Well, not Jesus himself -- but Jesus acting through a local pastor who made a special arrangement with the police and the courts to take young what's-his-name out of the system and into the arms of the church.

For weeks we followed the boy's progress. We watched the church group -- dressed in their Sunday best -- sing hymns to the Lord to thank him for delivering the soul of the young sinner and putting him on the path to righteousness. We watched that pastor, looking not entirely unlike the laughably over-zealous bible-thumping character Arsenio Hall created in Coming to America, as he proudly showed off the new and improved young what's-his-name, and touted the transformational power of Jesus Christ.

We then watched as the kid stole a car and went right back to jail.

I remember thinking at the time that if I were a young boy with a potential to get into trouble (no snickers please), it would bug the hell out of me that the leaders of my community -- its most powerful citizens -- weren't people who could give me life lessons grounded in the real world: doctors, lawyers, judges, civic leaders (that is, civic leaders who weren't also church leaders).

If I were that boy, the message you'd be sending me by surrounding me with pastors and their flock is simple: only God can help you kid.

It was a questionable enough solution for one misguided boy; it borders on incomprehensible for an entire community.

I don't doubt the church's ability -- nor do I cast derision upon its willingness -- to play a charitable role in the lives of millions in need. What I have an issue with is the black community's seeming insistence on laying a substantial part of the burden in any crisis squarely at the feet of Jesus Christ.

Once again, the message this sends is obvious: everyone else has abandoned you -- so you have to now put your ass in the hands of a being you can't see or hear, cross your fingers, say a prayer, and have faith that things will turn out okay. Praise Jesus.

A caveat of this, I hinted at before: it seems a prerequisite that to become a civic leader in the black community, one must at least be religious, and at most be an ordained pastor or minister of some kind.

It goes without saying that government was sleeping on the job and fully relenquished its post in the days leading up to, during, and following Hurricane Katrina. It let an entire city down; it let an entire city drown. In the absence of tangible, real-world help -- a reliance on myth and superstition is bound to flourish.

The message to the community though is unfortunate.

It'll take much more than faith to help the people of the Gulf.

My Nightly Middle Finger to MTV

Tonight, as the Mooninites of Aqua Teen Hunger Force say, "I'm doing this harder than I ever have before."

Why?

Because tonight, MTV's Video Music Awards descend on my city and on my television -- bringing shitloads of non-talent, far too many effeminate emo boys (can we please just fast-forward 15 years so that these clowns can ask, "what the hell we were thinking with those fucking haircuts?") and a whole hell of a lot of shameless plugs shouted by illiterate hip-hop stars, "Yo!!! My CD drops on (fill in the blank)!!!"

Not even Jack Black and the cast of Jackass can save it (although Pink accepting the award for Stupid Girls from Nicole Richie -- and not-so-subtly mocking her in the process was pretty bad-ass).

So in the spirit of figuratively pissing all over what the once-great video music channel has become, tonight's pick from yours truly is one of the flat-out coolest songs and videos of the past few years: Kasabian's Cutt Off. Watch it in its entirety for a truly inspired surprise.

This Just In...

Troubled British rocker Pete Doherty has constructed a time machine and transported himself back to the birth of Christ.

There he reportedly stuffed crystal meth into the Virgin Mary's mouth and urinated on the Baby Jesus, while calling the Three Wise Men, "fucking pricks."

My Nightly Middle Finger to MTV

I had originally planned never to put moving video of any kind on this site; the idea was to make it look as clean as possible. But I'm what the Karl Rove propaganda machine would call a "flip-flopper," so beginning tonight -- schedule permitting -- I'll be posting one of my favorite music videos every weeknight.

It's my way of saying, "Thanks MTV, for pissing on your original format and depriving us of good music in favor of endless episodes of Punk'd and Laguna Beach. Oh, and fuck you."

Tonight's video: the Foo Fighters' Best of You. It's easily the best single to date from a band that I believe is actually better than the band that spawned it. Call me insane all you want; I'm not arguing the greatness of Nirvana, I'm simply saying that the Foo Fighters, by virtue of sheer career-length, have released more quality material.

The video was directed by Mark Pellington, who not only did the brilliant Jeremy video for Pearl Jam, but also directed one of the three movies I never need to see again: the gut-wrenchingly disturbing Arlington Road.

Enjoy.

George of the Bungle

I hate to reduce the monumental human tragedy that was Hurricane Katrina down to a few trite comments, but I honestly believe that everything that can possibly be said about it has already been said. Watching today's reverent round-the-clock rehash by the networks though, there was one moment that stood out for me.

George W. Bush's interview with NBC's Brian Williams would've been strikingly offensive if we weren't so used to the Bush methodology by now. Lewis Black joked recently that Bush's oddest characteristic is that his face never seems to fit the words that are coming out of his mouth -- a reference to the near-constant smug smirk our Idiot In Charge seems to exhibit while talking about deadly serious topics. That painful paradox was on display today when Williams mentioned to Bush that University of Pennsylvania Professor Michael Eric Dyson had been on the network the night before with strong words about the administration's lack of concern for underprivileged storm victims. As the two walked along in front of a photo-op-ready set of recently built homes, Bush chuckled mid-swagger and said, "Well, I don't know who this Professor Dyson is, but we promised we were gonna help -- and we helped."

First of all, people who say that Bush's brief mea culpa a few months back signaled an end to his asinine hubris need to have their heads examined. It's to be expected that Bush would have a natural loathing for -- and possibly even some sort of post-traumatic stress relating to -- any kind of teacher; but the snide and arrogant derision he heaped on the very word "professor" spoke volumes about the way Bush perceives himself -- and those who rightly question him. He's still thoroughly deluded enough to believe that he's just an average guy, defending average folks just like him from the tyranny of those dangerously educated, elitist naysayers. He's Gary Cooper, riding in at High Noon to stand up for the simple townsfolk.

As usual, he has his head firmly up his ass.

There's no greater irony than the fact that Michael Eric Dyson was the first in his family to be able to pursue a higher education; if ever there was an American story of success-against-all-odds, he's it. Meanwhile Dubya was afforded every opportunity in life -- had everything handed to him -- and not only chose to treat his college classes as if attendance were merely a suggestion, but then had the nerve to cynically joke at one point that he was proof that a student could maintain a "C" average and still become president.

Another highlight of the interview: Incurious George telling Williams that he reads Camus.

I'd love to come up with a way to improve on that comedically, but I'm not sure I can. I'll leave it at this: I'm reminded of the scene in A Fish Called Wanda, where Wanda, played by Jamie Lee Curtis, calls terminal idiot Otto, played by Kevin Kline, an ape. He responds by saying, "Apes don't read Nietzsche," to which she says, "Yes they do, they just don't understand it."

Toward the end of the one-on-one however, Bush said something that would be laugh-out-loud funny if it weren't so soul-crushingly depressing.

"I like to keep my expectations low."

Thanks to you Mr. President, we're all forced to do the same.

This Just In...

Troubled British rocker Pete Doherty has been arrested for injecting heroin into the eyeballs of puppies and kittens at London's Humane Society.

When asked for comment, Doherty vomited on an AIDS patient.

Making Fun, Out of Nothing at All

There's a columnist for the Miami Herald whom I read once in awhile; his name is Leonard Pitts. This simple statement is hysterical at face value -- given that he's a Pulitzer Prize winner and, well, I'm doing this crap. For a moment though, I'm going to try and pretend that he can somehow benefit from the endorsement of a guy who spends most of his spare time bitching online, and give him a shout-out. He's an exceptional writer and one whose opinions I respect greatly, even if I don't always share them.

A couple of weeks ago, he wrote a pretty terrific column that dealt with a segment of the population's apoplexy at, and MTV's subsequent apology for, a cartoon show aired on the network which depicted an animated Snoop Dogg-like character walking around with two women attached to leashes. MTV defended the cartoon by calling it satire. Pitts brought up an obvious but very well articulated point that a defense like that hardly carries weight in our society anymore for one simple reason: satire is almost impossible these days.

He's absolutely right.

Satire is defined as the use of irony or sarcasm to expose and ridicule folly. Its main goal is to hold a very bright light up to the ridiculous by emulating it. When practiced well, it's not only a riot to watch -- it is almost impossible to defend against. Go along with it and you look like a dupe; argue back and you just look foolish. It should make its target wholly uncomfortable. It should make the stupid never question its sincerity. It is the most subversive art form ever conceived.

The problem though, is that popular culture has become such a self-parody that it almost seems as if parody itself has been rendered utterly impotent and throroughly unnecessary. How do you possibly make fun of Paris Hilton? Fear Factor? Hip-hop videos? Katherine Harris? The entire city of Los Angeles? How can you make Nancy Grace funnier and more painfully absurd than she already is?

Saturday Night Live has learned the hard way that you just fucking can't. Every time the once-hilarious late-night staple has attempted to mock one of America's many latter-day mondo-celebs by doing an over-the-top impression, it's fallen flat -- mostly because it can never go over-the-top-enough.

Rachel Dratch impersonating Britney Spears?

Not funny.

Britney Spears chewing gum and babbling incoherently to her worthless Vanilla Icy husband on video, doing an interview with Matt Lauer dressed like Aileen Wuornos, and writing poetry about tigers?

FUCKING HILARIOUS.

There are still a select few who practice the ancient art of irony and satire, and do it well. Sasha Baron Cohen's Ali-G character is a loveable buffoon, and he's a somewhat biting send-up of the idiocy of the Chav/Hip-Hop Nation -- but for the real detonation of an atomic bomb directly overtop of convention and social silliness, his other alter-egos, Borat and Bruno, are sights to behold. Watching the alleged Kazakhstani reporter get an entire bar full of rednecks to happily sing along to "Throw the Jew Down the Well" is priceless; as is the homophobic beat-down Bruno almost receives when he tells five drunk, screaming, half-naked frat shitheads in Daytona Beach that the camera they've been mugging for is broadcasting to "Austrian Gay TV."

Good satire is brutal. Even when it's subtle, its intention is never to deliver a glancing blow; it's to annihilate.

There is no more perfect example of this, than Stephen Colbert's blistering speech at this year's White House Correspondents' Dinner.

I have no idea what the hell they were thinking -- what they were expecting -- but I'm pretty sure that having a brilliant comedian mercilessly ridicule the President of the United States under the guise of worshipping him probably wasn't part of the plan. Stephen Colbert decided to forgo the typical harmless shtick which always gives the Beltway folks a good guffaw, and go right for the throat. And he did it with the most powerful man in the world sitting six feet away from him. He verbally bitch-slapped Bush for his antics -- and he verbally bitch-slapped the spineless White House press corps for not having done it for him long ago.

That may be the saddest fact of all: it would seem that the more asinine things get, the more we require satire; the more we need someone or something to hold the stupidity accountable. You can only laugh along with the hyenas for so long before it's time to start beating them over the heads with sticks.

Earlier this month, the Cartoon Network's hysterical Adult Swim series debuted a new program as part of its already bizarre lineup; if you haven't seen it, it's called Metalocalypse and features the very "Metal" adventures of a death-metal band called Dethklok. The show is a scream. It sends up every cliche' about that kind of -- well, just for the sake of brevity, I'll call it "music." Like all brilliant satire, it does it with a completely straight face. There's no hint of irony -- which is ironic in and of itself. If you understand the culture, the way the band and the devotion they inspire is presented is more sincere than an emo kid on two hits of ecstasy.

Years ago, I worked at a radio station where for a short time, I hosted a metal show. The kids who bowed to bands like Cannibal Corpse, Carcass and Deicide would call in and practically open their veins as a show of loyalty to "The Scene." They would compare albums and debate the musical influences of one band on another. Let me say that again: they would debate the subtle differences between one idiot grunting over rapid-fire drums and guitar, and another idiot grunting over rapid-fire drums and guitar. There were some who admitted that the whole thing was dumb and that they just enjoyed the joke, but there were far more who truly believed that songs like "Bloody Entrails Ripped from a Virgin's Cunt" were pure, brutal genius.

Thing is, they just might be genius.

The whole death metal scene was -- somewhat like Paris and Britney -- so unbelievably over-the-top as to be self-satire. It may very well have been its own perfectly-crafted, expertly-performed, deadpan inside joke. If that's true though, then as hilarious as it is, do we even need Dethklok?

I ask the same question Leonard Pitts asked: do we even need satire?

Just Say No

Troubled British rocker and human punchline Pete Doherty is back in the news.

He was busted giving a teenager cocaine while in rehab.

Sometimes this shit just writes itself.

Breaking "News"

So John Mark Karr turned out to be nothing more than a child-killer wanna-be (I'm betting I never get to use that term again in my lifetime).

That hissing sound you hear is the figurative water being poured all over Nancy Grace, causing her to melt into the floor.

Things to Do in Texas When You're Dead

By the time you read this, Justin Fuller will be dead.

Wednesday, 8:43am

There's a specific mathematical equation which can be used to help understand why Houston is arguably the most God-awful place on Earth. It all comes down to the numbers: the fifth-worst traffic in the country, plus the second-worst air-quality, minus the constant 72-degree temperature which makes Los Angeles livable despite such problems, multiplied by the number of Texans equals, well, Hell.

A few minutes ago I purposely ignored the flight attendant's request that I switch off all portable electronic devices, choosing instead to continue listening to Black Rebel Motorcycle Club's Howl album blasted at full-volume through my iPod. Anything to make descending through a layer of shit-brown haze slightly less depressing.

I'm now standing in baggage claim with my photographer. We've unloaded six pieces of luggage filled with heavy camera equipment and are currently engaged in a harried conversation with an employee of Continental Airlines. This employee's sole reason for existence over the next few hours will be to find a seventh piece of luggage which has apparently vanished into thin air somewhere between Laguardia and George Bush Intercontinental Airport.

That's my first impression of Houston this morning: lost luggage, an airport named after the man whose sperm mutated into George W. Bush, and a sign I'm leaning against which bears a likeness of the Houston Police Department seal. It reads, "Order Through Law. Justice With Mercy."

How reassuring.

I can't leave this place quickly enough.

Wednesday, 9:52am

Fortunately, the wayward bag didn't contain any vital piece of camera equipment; unfortunately it did contain a vital pair of shoes -- which is why we're now parked outside of a Wal-Mart along Route 59 North. My anchor and I sit in the Jeep Grand Cherokee which the network has been kind enough to rent for us; I'm in the driver's seat, she's next to me. We're discussing the pros, cons and innate weirdness of going to your twenty-year high school reunion. Apparently at hers, she and her husband shared a table with a couple that argued the entire evening; he was a farmer, she was a stay-at-home mom. Eventually, after several drinks, the farmer threatened violence against his timid wife and was forcibly removed from the table.

My anchor has just unknowingly convinced me to attend my own reunion next year.

At some point, the other producer travelling with us on this little adventure comes running out of the front of the monolithic Wal-Mart -- bag in hand. When she throws open the back door of the SUV, my anchor and I giddily ask to see her purchase. She shows us the shoes she just bought -- which are about as impressive as you'd expect a pair of shoes bought at a Texas Wal-Mart to be, which is to say, not at all. They aren't open-toed however, which means that they meet the stated requirement for entry into the Texas Department of Criminal Justice, Polunsky Unit's Death Row area. Why anyone's choice of footware would be a sticking point, I'm not quite sure. I'm not willing to argue the point however, given that I've already had nightmares in which today's shoot turns into the last half-hour of Natural Born Killers. Best to get on the guards' good sides right off the bat.

The producer slips off the flip-flops she wore on the plane and slides on the new Wal-Mart specials.

Wednesday, 10:07am

Continuing north on Route 59, we pass another Wal-Mart; this one is a Supercenter.

Wednesday, 10:15am

My anchor says she's hungry, so we pull over to a combination Chevron Station/Subway on the side of the road. The fact that myself, the other producer, our anchor and photographer have all chosen to wear black shirts for today's shoot -- a decision made without a hint of pre-planning or irony -- doesn't go unnoticed by the locals, many of whom resemble the road crew of Monster Magnet. They look at us like we're A) lost B) gay C) from New York, or D) all of the above. I'm the last in line to order and the rest of my crew is already out the door when I look next to the cash register and notice a plexiglass box containing small bottles stacked neatly in rows. I recognize them immediately: Mini-thins -- illegal in most states because they contain ephedrine, which has been known to occasionally thin the herd of stupid high school kids by stopping their hearts. They're often found in convenience stores because they conveniently keep truckers awake for extended runs. They've been at my side through every cross-country drive I've ever made.

I'm smiling as I hand the cashier a ten, toss one of the little bottles into my Subway bag and walk out the door -- carefully sidestepping the display of Git-R-Done bumper stickers on my way -- and into the humid Texas air.

Wednesday, 10:26am

We pass another Wal-Mart Supercenter.

Wednesday, 10:35am

As Route 59 narrows into a four-lane stretch of road, we pass a small, yellow building on the right. Emblazoned on the front of it is a sign that reads, Joy Juice Liquors.

I spit Dr. Pepper all over the steering wheel.

Wednesday, 10:43am

Up ahead of us on the side of the road is a large white tent. As the SUV approaches it and pulls parallel, we each stare silently; it's a massive display of swords, daggers and medieval-looking axes. There must be hundreds of them. Stretched across the top of the tent is a banner; it's succinct in its pronouncement: Swords!

As we glide past, I turn to my anchor. "Hey, you never know," I say blankly.

Wednesday, 11:06am

From the outside, the Polunsky Unit in Livingston, Texas looks about as you'd expect. It's a complex of ugly, two-story buildings surrounded by high fences topped with razor-wire that gleams in the oppressive, unobstructed sunlight. It sits in the middle of a barren field which is constantly patrolled by corrections officers in trucks, on ATVs and on horseback. At each corner of the complex is a tower; walking the landing of each tower is a guard armed with a Remington 11-87 combat shotgun and wearing the obligatory mirrored aviator sunglasses.

As we approach the guard gate -- which isn't a gate at all so much as a checkpoint -- a corrections officer tears himself away from a cooler of water that sits on top of a picnic table next to the road. He walks slowly around the front of our Jeep Cherokee. Before we even roll down the window, we go ahead and get it out of the way.

"What we got here is -- failure to communicate," comes a disembodied voice from the backseat; it's my photographer.

"No man can eat fifty eggs," I respond.

We're allowed in without incident and I park in the visitor's lot, next to a dusty red Chevy Geo with the words "Just Married" scrawled across the back window.

Wednesday, 11:17am

The first thing I notice when I enter the lobby -- which acts as a sort of purgatory between the outside world and the interior of the prison -- is the large sign bolted to the steel door on the other side of the metal detectors. It reads in bold letters, HOSTAGES WILL NOT EXIT THROUGH THIS DOOR, which makes me wonder if it's ever their decision which door they exit through.

We're met by a female corrections officer who bears a striking resemblance to Food Network host Paula Deen, right down to the comforting Southern drawl. Translation: she in no way looks like she belongs within ten miles of a place where some of the most dangerous men in the United States are at that very moment forcing the new guy to eat their asses. She checks us through the metal detector and runs down the checklist: no cell phones or Blackberries, no paper money, no pens or pencils, no cigarettes (as they can be traded for contraband), no sunglasses (as they can be traded for good contraband), no gloves (as they can be used to climb the fence), and of course -- no weapons (which suddenly makes me glad we didn't stop at Earl's Fabulous House of Swords).

Once we're given our visitors' passes, we're introduced to a young woman whose intention is to sell us Avon, or maybe recruit us for Junior League, or perhaps take us to a sorority mixer.

This is my first impression upon meeting her anyway.

The media liason for the Polunsky Unit's Death Row is the kind of girl that folks around these parts no doubt describe as "Cute as a Button." She's an attractive brunette in her mid-20s with a perfect complexion and -- for some reason I can't possibly fathom -- a smile that you likely couldn't remove from her face with a crowbar. Quite simply -- like Guard Paula Deen -- she's the last person anyone would expect to willingly spend her days surrounded by guys who are about to be executed. She seems more like a cruise director than someone who works for the Department of Criminal Justice.

After a few minutes of small-talk, which only adds to the palpable surreality, we're escorted into the prison yard via the large steel door -- the one hostages will not be exiting through.

On our way across the yard, Julie Your Cruise Director points to a nearly-windowless building that looks as if it's been flattened with a giant steam iron.

"That's Death Row. It's actually kind of a nice building," she exclaims.

I don't even know how to respond.

Wednesday, 11:36am

A few minutes ago, I and my crew were led into the visitors' wing which is attached to Death Row. Now that I'm looking around, the entire area reminds me of my elementary school -- right down to the bizarrely encouraging affirmations painted on the walls. "Remember, Safety is Priority One!" proclaims one. "Welcome to the Polunsky Unit!" screams another. There are picnic tables outside. There are vending machines against the far wall. I find myself looking around for a shuffle-board court.

In the room the inmates come and go, talking of life on Death Row.

As my photographer finishes setting up for our shoot, I walk slowly toward the partitioned glass booths in the center of the room. The front of the booths face outward, but the back is attached to a long hallway which leads directly to and from the Death Row cell block. The prisoners are never brought into the part of the room I'm standing in; they're simply shuffled into the hallway then dumped into one of these booths. It's like a macabre peep-show -- complete with a telephone. It's only when I look up that I notice that the subject of our interview -- the person we came all this way to see -- is already in his assigned booth; he's directly in front of me.

When our eyes meet, we exchange a cordial smile.

This is Justin Fuller.

In 1997, Justin Chaz Fuller -- at that time an 18-year-old recent high school graduate -- participated in the kidnapping and murder of an acquaintance. 21-year-old Donald Whittington was taken from his apartment in Tyler, Texas, driven to an ATM where he was forced to take out $300, then to an area near Lake Tyler where he was shot in the head. Witnesses say in the days following the murder, Fuller led them to the body and bragged about shooting Whittington. Three other people participated in the crime and during the trial Fuller insisted that although he took part in the kidnapping, he wasn't the triggerman. He expressed sorrow to the victim's family for his role in their loved one's death, but he's always insisted that he can't apologize for something he didn't do -- and he says he did not shoot Whittington.

Fuller has a baby face. In keeping with the confusing, dichotomic nature of everything in this place, he doesn't look like he belongs here. He's soft-spoken and has an easy, almost infectious smile. At one point, he makes eye-contact with one of the guards and both of them begin to laugh, as if sharing an inside joke. I'm not quite sure how he has the ability to be so insouciant, given that he'll be dead in less than thirty-six hours.

Wednesday, 11:55am

Houston, we have a problem.

My photographer has just informed me that his camera isn't working.

As he was hauling it out of the airport in Houston, he accidentally slammed it against the automatic doors. We assumed it was fine. We apparently assumed wrong.

Suddenly I'm no longer waxing philosophical in my mind about the justice system and Justin Fuller's place in it; I'm trying to figure out how to salvage an important and expensive interview -- one which needless to say can't be "rescheduled." In a flash I'm back out into the hot sun and walking quickly across the protected area of the prison yard, out through purgatory and finally out into the parking lot. I'm cursing under my breath and sweating like Oprah on a Stairmaster.

When I get back to the SUV I begin making desperate phone calls to our National Desk. A few minutes later, I'm informed that a freelance photographer is being dispatched to our location and should arrive within the hour. Crisis averted. The power of network news emerges triumphant.

Wednesday, 12:23pm

After another pass through the metal detector accompanied by another kindly smile from Office Paula Deen, I'm once again back in the Death Row visitors' area where I'm met by the other producer. She quickly gives me the thumbs up and informs me that in my absence the camera mysteriously began working properly. The interview is happening right now.

Since I have the phone number of the freelancer in my pocket, I ask Julie Your Cruise Director to borrow her cell phone and place a call to let him know to stand down.

Then I quietly walk over behind the camera, pull up a chair, grab an earpiece and listen.

Wednesday, 12:31pm

Justin Fuller speaks softly and articulately; the effect is hypnotically disarming.

He talks first about his family: his father who coached his youth soccer team; his mother who believed for so long that she had raised him right. He expresses sadness over the fact that tomorrow these ostensibly good people -- these innocent people -- will sit by helplessly and watch their son die. He pauses for a moment as he says this -- exhales softly.

When asked about his crime, he stands by his assertion that he wasn't the one who fired the bullet that killed Donald Whittington. "I was 18. I was stupid," he says when pressed about why he became involved in the crime in the first place. "I was a follower, you know? I should've known better." Still, he believes that his own death won't bring peace to Whittington's family -- that it's simply a case of two terrible wrongs attempting to make an elusive right.

"You can't teach people not to kill by killing people," he says.

As I listen, I find myself wondering about the thought processes behind Fuller's statements. He appears -- for all intents and purposes -- to be a very bright young man, but I can't help wondering how much of his rhetoric is the result of his own personal reflection and how much is simply a series of talking points naturally absorbed into his character after almost ten years of steady repetition by defense lawyers. I pay attention to key words and phrases; unusual terms that seem to stand out in a sea of common language. I pay attention to how often he repeats these terms during the conversation.

He's asked if he understands what's going to happen to him tomorrow -- if he knows the details of the lethal injection process. His response is eerie in its matter-of-factness.

"Yes, Sodium Thiopental will put me to sleep. Pancuronium Bromide will paralyze my muscles -- and then Potassium Chloride will stop my heart and kill me."

That's it. It's that simple. He describes the process that will end his life as if he and the woman sitting across from him were at a table at an intimate restaurant -- and he was placing an order for the two of them.

It's at this point that I begin to wish that the subject of our interview bore more of a resemblance to Hannibal Lecter; that he was someone more cunning and unapologetic -- that he was someone easily dismissable. It's at this point that I begin to wish that Justin Fuller were more of a caricature, and less human.

I remove the earpiece and step over to Julie Your Cruise Director, who's seated several feet away from the camera.

"How do you do this kind of thing?" I ask -- not accusingly, but out of a legitimate desire to understand something which seems incomprehensible.

She looks at me, and with a smile that adds a jarring irony to her words, says offhandedly, "I drink -- a lot."

Every Wednesday, she's here helping men make their final statements to the world.

Every Thursday, she watches those same men die; she attends every execution held here.

Wednesday, 1:16pm

We thank Justin Fuller for his time, which at this point is something I'd imagine is quite precious to him. He remains in the caged booth -- behind the thick glass -- as we begin tearing down our equipment.

I'm staring out of the window onto the prison yard, trying to push myriad thoughts out of my head: the strangeness of a place where death is literally doled out on an assembly line; the questionable equity of a justice system which seems to arbitrarily condemn one murderer to die while allowing others to live; the possibility that lethal injection isn't so much a humane method of execution for the benefit of the condemned as it is a means to make us feel better about the process -- to help us sleep at night; as well as a means to make us feel superior to the condemned, who may have killed without such supposed humanity.

This reverie is suddenly broken by the three words no producer ever wants to hear.

"It didn't record," my photographer says.

I fight the urge to spin around in a panic, choosing instead to simply close my eyes and sigh.

"I figured I got the camera rolling. It looked like everything was alright," he continues.

I motion to Julie Your Cruise Director -- letting her know that I need her phone again.

"You guys gave me a thumbs-up. If I had known that there might still be a problem, I would've gotten the freelancer out here as a back-up."

I don't wait for my photographer to respond. I'm redialing the number for the freelance photographer; after five rings, I hear him pick up.

"How fast can you get here?" I ask him.

Not fast enough.

We're screwed.

Wednesday, 2:03pm

It's been a long time since I've driven. Aside from a recent car rental, I haven't been behind the wheel of a vehicle since I begrudgingly sold my Audi A4 and moved to the land of subways and taxis. Thankfully I've forgotten none of the technique I learned while growing up in Miami and tearing through the streets in an attempt to replicate the driving style of Miami Vice. I'm weaving through traffic at near warp-speed in the hope of quickly reaching a local affiliate station which has graciously agreed to allow us to play back the tape of our interview. My anchor made the arrangement by phone just a few minutes ago. The prayer is that the problem we're having is with the camera's playback setting -- and not with the tape itself. None of us is very hopeful.

The other potential crisis at the moment is that our flight leaves in about two and a half hours, and I'm now about to drive into the center of Houston right at the start of rush hour -- in the rain.

I've got to get out of this business.

Wednesday, 3:07pm

I pull the SUV up and slam it to the curb right outside the affiliate. My crew flings open the doors and runs up the covered steps and into the building. I close my eyes and try to remain calm.

Wednesday, 3:13pm

As they exit the building, I can tell by the looks on their faces that things are not good.

"It's worthless," my anchor says as she climbs into the passenger's seat.

We came all this way for nothing.

Our flight leaves in an hour and a half.

Wednesday, 4:30pm

I have visions of the unparalleled benefits of profiling; it would have to work better than the system the TSA has in place right now at our nation's airports. I wonder how anyone can claim that confiscating water bottles and gel products prior to boarding is in any way keeping Americans safe in the skies. The question I want to ask one of these idiots is simple: "If you knew that liquid explosives were a potential threat -- then why the hell were we ever allowed to bring water on a fucking plane?" As usual, terrorists are thinking ahead, while the people paid to outsmart them have set up a safety net as secure and impenetrable as the space between Bill Buckner's legs.

I'm fidgeting. I'm angry. I'm about to miss my flight.

Wednesday, 4:56pm

Our plane rises through the gruesome haze of pollution spread low across Houston. A moment ago, I stood up slightly and looked around the cabin -- making sure my anchor, my photographer and our other producer made it. They did.

The man seated next to me is reading Bernie Goldberg's 100 People who are Screwing Up America, now expanded to 110 people. I can only assume that Hillary Clinton had ten new children since the publication of the last edition; or maybe Bernie just had ten more mini-strokes which translated into ten more Quixotic rants against liberals, feminists and any other Godless cretins his elderly mind deems offensive.

I lean back and close my eyes.

My iPod is plugged into my head.

The quiet beauty of Mazzy Star's Rhymes of an Hour washes over me.

I want to get Justin Fuller's comfortable smile out of my head.

I want to go home and hold my wife.

Thursday, 6:07pm

The first of three chemicals is pumped into Justin Fuller's body. He's looking at the faces of his mother and father as he drifts off.

Thursday, 6:18pm

Justin Fuller is pronounced dead.

In Bad Taste

So my wife and I are sitting on the couch watching Iron Chef America.

One of tonight's judges is Art Smith, whose supposed claim to fame is that he's "Oprah's Personal Chef," which is a little like being a truck stop hooker: sure you're always busy -- but you're catering to a clientele that would probably be just as satisfied fucking the 16-year-old boy behind the Subway counter.

Who's his sous chef -- Ronald McDonald?

I fucking hate Oprah.

Fo Guzzle

Just saw a screening of Beerfest.

You already know how I feel about the guys from Broken Lizard, so I freely admit to having gone in with somewhat of a bias. That said, it's a damn funny movie; purposely stupid as shit -- but damn funny.

It's been years since I was of the age where drinking was something so wondrous and novel that I actually engaged in games dedicated to it, wore t-shirts honoring it, and felt pride in how well I could do it. These days, I'm like most adults; I drink not really because I want to but because I damn well have to.

Still, the movie made me want to find the nearest bar and -- armed with a quarter in one hand and a beer-pong paddle in the other -- start pounding.

As such, look for Beerfest to become the next big must-see college movie. Every fraternity in America will make it required viewing and will no doubt create vicious hazing rituals in which pledges are forced to learn to recite the entire movie from memory. TKE idiots everywhere will own not one but two DVD copies -- just in case one is destroyed in a freak bong-smoking accident.

As funny as the movie is, I confess that I was hoping for a different ending; I sincerely believe that the Broken Lizard guys really would've knocked it out of the park if they'd had their characters pour beer on, then beat the living fucking shit out of the cast of Entourage.

Oh well -- maybe in the sequel.

For Christ's sake, this weekend do the world a favor and forego watching Wedding Crashers for the 193rd time, boycott Will Ferrell for cynically rehashing the same stupid schtick over and over again -- and see Beerfest.

Your liver will thank you for it.

A Life More Ordinary

This will not be the finest thing I've ever written; on the contrary, it will probably wind up being hackneyed and silly. Consider yourself warned.

I'm somewhere around 35,000 feet over the Atlantic Ocean, and I'm exhausted as hell. As usual, my iPod is connected directly to my eardrums and a couple of seconds ago Simon & Garfunkel's haunting masterpiece Scarborough Fair gave way to Radiohead's Everything in its Right Place. As usual, it would seem that gods equal parts loving and vengeful are also possessed of a sick sense of irony.

Exactly five years and one lifetime ago, I was entering the final week of a month-long stint at a South Florida rehab center -- the culmination of a nine month and $150 dollar a day heroin addiction. I see no reason to go into the lurid details of what I experienced in rehab -- what I gained and lost, the depths of human suffering and heights of human resilience I witnessed; suffice to say that by the time of my unremarkable departure from the public facility which had been kind enough to house my racked body and mind for 28 days, I was lucid enough to realize that one of the reasons I didn't want to do heroin anymore was the simple fact that if I lived an eternity never having to go through the fucking nightmare of rehab again, it still wouldn't put enough figurative and literal distance between myself and the place.

Right after leaving "The Facility," my father and I hopped a plane back to Los Angeles with the intention of cleaning out what little was left of my life there in the wake of my soon-to-be ex-wife's unceremonious departure, which occurred about halfway through my little vacation from the daily grind of being a pathetic addict. The plan was simple: Dad and I would fly out to L.A., salvage what we could, write the rest off, then drive back to South Florida where I would begin my new life as an unemployed shell whose days would mainly consist of staring at the TV and contemplating suicide -- not necessarily in that order. All in all, it was a good plan -- a roadtrip even Dennis Hopper would find surreal; an ex-Navy SEAL and his junkie son -- all gone to look for America.

The reason this happens to be on my mind right now -- the obligation to celebrate such a momentous anniversary notwithstanding -- is because I distinctly remember the drive to the airport; it very well could have been the lowest point in the sad history of low points throughout my life. For some reason, the painfully generic AOR station in South Florida at the time chose to play A Perfect Circle's 3 Libras as we approached Ft. Lauderdale/Hollywoood International Airport -- unknowingly providing the perfect soundtrack to the tiny tragedy unfolding in the lives of two people who just happened to be listening that morning. That drive to the airport -- that entire trip back to the place I called home at the time -- was nothing less to me than an outright admission of failure; I had failed in my career, in my marriage, in my entire life. I was simply going back to pick up the pieces and clean up the mess.

This morning's drive to the airport had no such soundtrack -- unless you count the sound of the pounding rain on the windshield; no life-altering body-blow precipitated it; there was no punishing sense of impending doom; it was simply my father driving my wife and me to the ostensible end of our mini-vacation. Yet this morning's drive was an infinitely more painful experience than that nearly identical trip five years ago.

The reason for this is the stuff of worthless Dr. Phil shows, bad screenplays and "A Very Special Facts of Life:" when you finally learn to care for someone or something other than yourself -- when you find something greater and more important than bullshit self-reliance -- you open yourself up to a world of hurt like nothing you'd previously imagined. Excuse the triteness, but it would seem that Uncle Ben's advice to young Peter Parker works both ways: it's true that with great power comes great responsibility, but it's just as true that with great responsibility comes great power. For most of my 36 years on this planet, I never bothered to willingly take on any responsibility, for exactly that reason: I didn't want that kind of power over anyone's life other than my own. I made commitments, but only in a perfunctory sort of way. I made promises, but always surreptitiously left myself an open back door. I made a hell of a lot of excuses for my rotten behavior; typically those excuses were so damned clever that rather than balk at them, I admired my own ingenuity at their creation. My life was always mine to make or break -- and it was good that way. It was an entertaining, ongoing dramedy of which I was the lead and just about anyone else merely played the necessary role which I had assigned them. Characters came and went -- some were killed-off or written out; some just gave-up and walked away -- but the star of the show always remained.

This was why, no matter how many disastrous turns I took in life, I always seemed to come through like the proverbial cat landing on its feet.*

Despite coming off of a fall that would've made Icarus flinch, this outlook on life was still very much intact in September of 2001, when I made the decision to come to New York in the wake of the 9/11 attacks. In fact, New York -- I quickly learned -- was the perfect place in which to lovingly nurture the hell out of an attitude like this. True, it was a city in excruciating pain -- but it was also a city in which a person could easily vanish and reappear at will, occasionally as an entirely different entity altogether. It was a perpetual playground which provided a mammoth new backdrop for my little one-man show. As a single guy with a great job and a new lease on life, New York City was my fucking town.**

Then I met Jayne.

I wish I could humbly claim that I retired the Me-and-Me Against the World mind-set the moment she spoke my name, but unfortunately that's just not the case. In spite of the fact that I loved her passionately, I also loved her selfishly. She never deserved to be part of the rotating cast of characters in my show, and yet for some time, that's exactly what she was. I can't tell you when things changed. I'm not quite sure when my love for her began eclipsing my concern for myself -- as well as for anyone or anything else. I do know however that these days her life and her needs -- as well as our life together -- are of a singular import to me; I will fight to the death for her and to keep us intact. She and I are a family.

And therein lies the issue.

New York is a whirlwind, and when you stand alone in that whirlwind it's highly unlikely that you'll be pulled into pieces. Try hanging on to another person though, and see what happens. There are those here who don't see a young married couple as a family -- they look upon it with a jaded eye and a natural assumption that it's nothing more than a divorce waiting to happen. At the risk of over-generalizing -- New York City is a single person's town. The place is certainly greased for bringing people together, but keeping them together is a different story entirely. Once upon a time, Jayne and I fantasized about being that old couple you see holding hands, walking through Central Park. The problem is this: you only see that couple in commercials. Most elderly couples you stumble across in New York City fit another stereotype altogether -- it's the one in which the two people involved can't live with each other, but they apparently can't live without each other either. This was never the kind of relationship I imagined being involved in as I wandered into my twilight years.

What my wife and I want instead are things which might have seemed painfully dull to us years ago -- things like stability and the love of good friends and the support of a caring extended family. We want a child of our own, and we want to raise him or her in a nurturing environment. We want to be able to come home from work and see each other, rather than face the near-constant onslaught of a work schedule which never seems to end and employers who expect unconditional submission to that fact. Quite simply, we want a life.

This undeniable truth is the reason why our ride to the airport this morning was so difficult; we just didn't want to come back.

I love New York -- but I love her more. She loves New York -- but she loves me more.

Everything is most certainly not in its right place -- but it soon will be.

(*It's worth mentioning that while I've come through quite a bit in my lifetime, I've never had the colossal nerve to be self-congratulatory about this fact. I've always believed that you forfeit the privilege of calling yourself a survivor when in fact the only things you've survived are your own personal catastrophes.)
(**Every unattached idiot thinks this. Finding an arrogant moron in New York City who flaunts his supposed ownership of the place is about as common as finding a deli which advertises the World's Best Coffee -- and it's just ridiculous a claim to make.)

Do Not Disturb

Having far too relaxing a time.

Not watching the news or thinking about much of anything beyond my next cold Corona.

I'll return tomorrow.

Chances are I won't be happy about it though.

Auto Reply: Out of Office

Everyone deserves some time away from it all, including questionably-talented idiots like me. As such, I'll be taking a few days "off" and heading back home to South Florida -- specifically to the Keys, which for the unfamiliar, comprise the most wonderfully relaxing place on this planet.

I qualify the word off because I'll be taking my laptop with me, so you can expect occasional little tidbits to be posted here and there, but don't look for the usual long and rambling diatribes to return until next Tuesday.

(As it turns out by the way, this mini-break couldn't have come at a better time; I need to lay low for a few days while my carefully-planted patsy takes the rap for the Jon Benet murder. What can I say -- she had that "little girl smell.")

I'll have a fruity drink with an umbrella in it for you.

Cheers kids.

Breaking "News"

There's been an arrest in the Jon Benet Ramsey murder.

Didn't care one fucking bit about this from the beginning?

Nope, neither did I.

Penny Laid

I usually do my best to ignore the wellspring of celebrity rumor and conjecture that passes for legitimate news these days; I figure I have more important things to concern myself with than whether or not Nick Lachey has a small penis, and how many minutes of manual strangulation it would take to put Jessica Simpson into a permanent coma for publicly suggesting one way or the other.

But despite the claims of several ex-girlfriends, I'm human -- and every once in awhile something gets my attention.

The fact that the marriage between Kate Hudson and The Black Crowes' Chris Robinson is coming to an end isn't much of a surprise. I won't be one of those people who makes the case that their attempt at inter-species mating was doomed from the start, but I'm willing to bet that a near-constant barrage of this sentiment from everybody else on the goddamned planet constituted enough pressure to break even a marriage made out of titanium.

Now though, the New York Daily News (motto: "The Second-Best Newspaper to Train Your Puppy on in the Tri-State Area") is reporting that Owen Wilson may have had something to do with Kate's ultimate decision to leave her husband.

Understand something: to me, Kate Hudson will always be Penny Lane. She turned in one of the best performances, creating one of the best characters in possibly the best rock n'roll movie ever made -- Cameron Crowe's almost perfect Almost Famous. Thanks to that movie -- and her role in it -- I'll always love Kate in much the same way that I'll always love Zeppelin; she just had the ability to speak to my soul without saying so much as a word.

She could make Raising Helen IV: Annihilation, and I'd still sigh like a smitten schoolboy at the thought of her.

Owen Wilson on the other hand constitutes one of the most baffling cinematic curiosities since, well, the canonization of M. Night Syhamalan (sorry, I don't think that's ever getting old). He's made an entire career out of playing the guy who lived down the hall from me, and everyone else, in college -- the borderline autistic whom you wouldn't bother with if it weren't for the fact that he's a near-bottomless reservoir of pot; and even then you're wary simply because to gain access to his drugs you have to endure hours of ridiculously fucking giddy observations about why refrigerator magnets work or how Emily Bronte is the thinking man's Charlotte Bronte or a vast array of other crap that employs stoner-logic.

There's only one Wilson in the history of film that's turned in a duller, more lifeless performance -- and he starred opposite Tom Hanks in Castaway.

Now I have to live with the possibility that a guy who couldn't get me into a theater for any of the movies that he's made, somehow got himself into Kate Hudson's heart and nether-regions.

In the immortal words of Weezer: Say it Ain't So.

God Save the Queen (From Us)

If you ever get the chance, do yourself a favor and take a look at the descriptive copy written on the back cover of the DVD of Danny Boyle's kinetic 1996 masterpiece Trainspotting. What you'll find there is one of the most unintentionally hilarious misrepresentations of any product since snake-oil was peddled as a cure for, well, everything.

In fact, the supposed summarization of the movie couldn't be more full of shit if they claimed that Eddie Murphy co-starred as the voice of a wise-cracking donkey.

It reads as such:

"Trainspotting delivers a wild mix of rebellious action and wicked humor! It's the story of four friends as they try to make it in the world on their own terms... and who end up planning the ultimate scam!"

If you've seen the movie, you know that technically this description is accurate; it would hold up in court. But if you've seen the movie, you also know that it manages to omit one or two -- oh, I don't know -- important details. Nowhere in the copy are the words drugs, heroin, or addicts ever mentioned. What you get instead is a characterization of Trainspotting that's akin to calling Psycho, "The powerful story of one man's unending devotion to his mother."

Thankfully, despite Hollywood's unwillingness to confront some of the darker themes of the movie head-on, Trainspotting did find its target audience in the states and Danny Boyle was permitted to continue making movies -- of which all not starring Leonardo DiCaprio were very good.

In 2002, if you'll pardon the pun, Boyle breathed new life into the zombie-horror genre with 28 Days Later, a relentlessly visceral nightmare set in London and shot on grainy, digital video. It was the kind of movie that not only would a big Hollywood studio have been unwilling to make -- it wouldn't even have known how.

It was also a huge hit.

So, you can imagine the pit that formed in my stomach when I learned that Boyle would be relinquishing the director's chair for the sequel, 28 Weeks Later, and that the plot would involve American military forces attempting to re-take London, with disastrous consequences. A premise such as this has worked only once in the history of filmmaking, and somehow I doubted another Aliens was in the cards. More likely, I figured, was that audiences would be assured a "bigger," "badder," "faster," and of course infinitely fucking "dumber" version of the original. Maybe they'd bring Brett Ratner onboard and cast Will Smith. Quite frankly, I assumed that Hollywood would grab a cash cow by the teats and attempt to milk it for all it was worth.

Then I heard what Danny Boyle -- who's apparently staying on as Executive Producer -- has in mind, and I realized that he just might be about to make one of the most politically subversive movies of the last decade.

The key here is context.

At any other time in recent memory, the notion of the United States riding in like the cavalry to save the day wouldn't simply be acceptable, it would be generally perceived as at least something of a blessing. Hollywood has typically reflected that sentiment on the big screen. Given the events of the past few years however, America's ability to project an image of strength to the outside world -- as well as the benevolent use of that strength -- has been damaged to the point of almost becoming a punchline. It's not much of a stretch to imagine that a maverick British filmmaker would be willing to turn a conventional plot device on its ass and use it to make the point that what was once American confidence is now American arrogance -- that the U.S. belief that it can come in and solve another country's disaster through military intervention is worthy of subtle and not-so-subtle mockery.

If the writer of 28 Days Later -- Alex Garland -- were to also be at the pen this time around, I would've thought the scenario I just described to be entirely possible. As it turns out, the person actually writing 28 Weeks Later might make it all but certain.

His name is Rowan Joffe, and his last screenplay was for a 2001 movie imaginatively titled Gas Attack. The plot centered around Middle-Easterners seeking asylum in London and the racism they encounter from right-wing authorities. In other words: if you think he's going to write a script where the country that's behind Extreme Makeover: Middle-East Edition is the good guy, I've got the location of some weapons of mass destruction for you.

What's especially ironic about this is that art doesn't need to imitate life right now, particularly not insofar as the British are concerned. British filmmakers don't need to make America look foolish because British intelligence services do it for them. Last week's bust of an alleged terror cell in London bent on taking down airliners over the Atlantic was a public relations bonanza for the Brits -- and one that U.S. officials apparently wanted in on so badly that they convinced their counterparts in the U.K. to allow them to have a say in the timing of the arrests. Not surprising given that Alberto Gonzales and company's last big public victory lap in the war on terror involved the arrest of seven Haitians in Miami who had apparently once used the word al-Qaeda in mixed company.

The most unfortunate caveat to the possibility that 28 Weeks Later will be an allegory for the impotence of U.S. military might is the forethought involved; the movie won't be released until next summer. That means that someone believes that its perfectly safe to assume that neither our fortunes in Iraq, nor our image around the globe, will improve much over the next year.

You know something, I take back what I originally said; I can think of something that was misrepresented far worse than a simple DVD movie.

One Day in September

Just about five years.

That's the answer to a question that's been taking up space in the back of my mind for some time now. It involves a difficult and painful subject -- which as it turns out, is precisely the reason why this particular answer is what it is. Easy topics make for easy discussion -- the stuff of cocktail parties and backyard Bar-BQs; but no one wants to be the one who brings up a dead relative on prom night -- or in this case, 3,000 dead relatives.

The question: how much time has to go by before Americans are willing to debate the official story of 9/11?

Now before you snort dirisively and turn away, assuming that I keep a lovely collection of tin-foil hats in my closet -- you should probably know where I'm going with this somewhat sensitive topic. I refuse to rehash the supposed facts which certain groups claim as proof of a conspiracy (as there are many); I also refuse to rehash the supposed facts which so many others claim as proof that conspiracy theorists are goddamned nuts (as there are just as many). The truth is, I'm not half as interested in the anatomy of an alleged conspiracy as I am in the anatomy of the theory itself.

I suppose however that in the interest of full disclosure, I should probably mention that I think Oswald got off a few very lucky shots. I also think that it probably really was a weather balloon that went down in Roswell, New Mexico in 1947. I'm certainly not blind to the possibility that conspiracies exist and that our own government can be involved, but I suppose that I've always been willing to give those in power the benefit of the doubt -- a fact which admittedly doesn't gel very well with my misanthropic nature; in fact, it's far more likely that I simply have bills to pay and a life to lead and don't have the time to concern myself with every little fucking thing.

And yet it's these very facts which have led to a nagging feeling that I can't seem to shake, no matter how much I'd like to.

I realize that there will always be those who will ask questions and doubt the reality of any given situation -- schizophrenics, argumentative assholes, philosophy students etc. -- but for the most part, the population of America is made up of people who trust their eyes and their gut; they'll believe something when it hits them in the face -- or flies into the side of a building. But what happens when events unfold in the aftermath that actually force you to go back and look at that initial moment in an entirely different way? I hate to once again bring up my best friend in the whole wide world, M. Night Shyamalan, but how many people rewatched the first hour-and-a-half of The Sixth Sense once the ending was revealed, simply to observe how deftly that eventual outcome was engineered?

America is now engaged in a war, the aim of which would seem to be to remake the Middle-East. It's a war prosecuted under the guise of protecting America from terrorism -- and by that very definition would be a war without any forseeable or even possible end. It's a war we are unfortunately not winning. It's a war that began on September 11th, 2001, as our president seems practically orgasmic in his desire to remind us. In fact, I'm pretty sure that George W. Bush believes that every time he mentions this in front of a television camera, an angel gets its wings.

The root question at the core of any conspiracy is always the same: who has something to gain?

Believe it or not, when it came time for me to decide whether or not to doubt the government's version of 9/11, this thought barely entered my mind.

Instead, I asked myself another question -- the simple logic of which became inescapable: after everything you've seen, would you believe anything these guys said or did?

Once again, I'm not a conspiracy theorist -- but there's just no denying that this administration has made it astoundingly easy to become one. In the past four years, I've seen more lies, more cover-ups, more dirty tricks, more purposeful fear-mongering, more outright arrogant disregard for the rule of law and basic reason that if Dick Cheney told me what time it was, I'd get a second opinion.

Quite frankly, they've lost the benefit of the doubt that I was formerly so willing to hand over.

There goes the first hurdle to ostensibly questioning my government's story.

The second, as I mentioned, was my desire to simply keep busy living my own life. Awhile back I wrote about the belief that if your entire existence is a lie, then that lie actually becomes the truth. An offshot of that assertion is this: the smaller the lie, the easier it is to see through -- the better it stands out among all those truths. Let me put it another way: I'm actually more inclined to believe that an alleged conspiracy would be behind the deaths of 3,000 people than behind say, 30. The logic is flawless. The larger the act, the less likely it would be questioned -- and the more likely that those who did question it would automatically become pariahs.

To those who insist that there's simply no way that a college kid with a video camera -- or any other average American -- could expose a cover-up so vast (and not be killed by the same shadowy forces behind that cover-up), you're not understanding the beauty of something so perfectly engineered (if in fact it was). The fact that you're unwilling to even consider such a possibility renders the threat from him completely impotent. It's simply beyond the realm of rational thought that our own government could have a role in something so hideous, which is why a conspiracy of this magnitude would create its own impenetrable shield of protection for those involved.

This is all academic though; the fact is that I don't know what I really believe about what happened that day. I know what I saw, and that first impression remains a logical one.

I do know however that it's never a good idea to stop asking questions -- certainly not these days.

(I guess I should take this opportunity to say hello to the nice folks at the NSA. To everyone else, as Bill Hicks used to say -- don't worry, the dick jokes return tomorrow.)

The Journey to the Dark Side is Complete

Irrelevant comedian Dennis Miller will join Fox News Channel in September, becoming a commentator on Hannity and Pencil-Necked, Non-Threatening Liberal Stereotype (Colmes).

Ya know Dennis, this is a perfect gig for you babe; jokes that involve Rube Goldbergian references are gonna go over about as well with the NASCAR crowd as, well, jokes that involve the actual words Rube Goldbergian.

In the words of every press-release attack issued from the Department of Agitprop over at Fox, "We wish you well."

Sunday Sacrilege

The Book is Back

I'm a good liar -- which is why I spend most of my spare time writing; writers are, by nature, incredibly gifted liars.

I realize that I promised awhile back to post an excerpt from my book,