Six Degrees of Defamation

1. Jeff Foxworthy, who mysteriously raked in a fortune noting what might make you a redneck, hosts a show on the Fox network called Are You Smarter than a 5th Grader?

2. American Idol appears on the Fox network.

3. Uber-cute, country music wanna-be Kristy Lee Cook is a contestant on American Idol.

4. Last week, Kristy Lee Cook sang Lee Greenwood's unintentionally hilarious tribute to Jesus and America, God Bless the USA, on American Idol.

5. The chorus of God Bless the USA begins with Lee Greenwood singing, "I'm proud to be an American, where at least I know I'm free," which makes no grammatical sense whatsoever.

6. God Bless the USA proves that Lee Greenwood is both a redneck and not smarter than a 5th grader, making him the perfect foil for Jeff Foxworthy.

Fail

President Bush booed at last night's 2008 home opener of the Washington Nationals

Dead Star Twilight: The Soundtrack (Part 2)

More music from my full-length memoir, Dead Star Twilight, which will be available for download from this site beginning on Tuesday, April 8th.



Counting Crows -- A Long December



Poe -- Amazed



A Tribe Called Quest -- Find a Way



Elliott Smith -- Angeles

(Dead Star Twilight Soundtrack, Part 1)

(Incidentally, yes, I will be creating an iTunes playlist of all this stuff in the coming days. I'll let everyone know when it's up.)

Dead Star Twilight: The Soundtrack

As I mentioned last week, on Tuesday, April 8th, I'll be making my memoir, Dead Star Twilight, available for download from this site. (For those who've sent me emails commenting on the lack of "quality" content here at DXM recently, the final preps for the book's release are to blame. Oh yeah, and tough shit.)

I've already gone over the basics of what's featured in the book: that year-and-a-half period of my life, the timeline, the players, etc. What I haven't really gotten into though, is one of the most important components of the story.

The music.

It should surprise no one to learn that throughout my little ordeal -- as it did in the years leading up to, and has in the years since -- music played an invaluable role in helping me to cope, marking certain moments, conveying my emotions better than I ever could and complementing the situations I found myself in and the moods they elicited.

I know I'm not the only person who believes that life has a soundtrack, and since the memoir is a slice of my life -- a stretch of time that was equal parts agonizing and exhilarating -- it has what amounts to its own score.

The book either mentions outright or indirectly references a number of bands and songs, and so, over the next week-and-a-half -- leading up to April 8th -- I'll be publishing a series of special Listening Posts which feature the music of Dead Star Twilight.

Hope they help add to your enjoyment of the story.

Here's the first (and please remember that the videos won't always be spectacular; I'm just interested in the music):



Black Rebel Motorcycle Club -- Shuffle Your Feet (The only song of the series not featured in the story itself. For some reason, this is always what comes to mind as I go back over the opening chapter. Sure it's self-indulgent, but isn't writing a memoir to begin with?)



Underworld -- Pearl's Girl



Supreme Beings of Leisure -- Never the Same



Morphine -- All Wrong/Whisper



Moby -- God Moving Over the Face of the Waters

Dial 911, Ask for Jesus

I'd love to expound on this, but it's just too fucking infuriating and I feel like I've said it all before.

What I'll suggest is to first read this story, then (if your brain still functions) take a look at the calendar on your desk and note the year.

(Milwaukee JS Online: Young Girl Dies of Diabetes While Family Prays/3.26.08)

"You Like Gettin' Nailed by the King, Baby?"

I promise I'll drop this now, but apparently there is someone out there even less sexy than Sarah Jessica Parker. She can finally breathe a sigh of relief.

(The Huffington Post: Larry King Voted "Least Sexy" TV Host/3.27.08)

Project Office Mayhem

Your assignment, as usual: Quietly put the following link up on every computer in your office, then crank all the speakers to full volume.

Mischief points: 6,800

If you work in the Arab wing of the Anti-Defamation League: 1,348,225

If you work at a newspaper in Denmark: 14

(The Cars That Go Boom)

Listening Post

I could post a different astonishing Massive Attack song every day and not run out of them for months. Here are two. First up, Butterfly Caught.



Next, False Flags.

Reality Bites

Every once in a while, the stars align and hand me the perfect opporunity to resurrect an often overlooked column from the archives. Today, I've been given the rare chance to bring back two.

In January of last year, I posted a couple of articles focusing on a trend in this country: an unwillingness to accept reality, based on the belief that it can be altered on a whim.

The columns cited, as examples, both American Idol (which airs tonight on Fox), and an interview with Dick Cheney (who has just completed a frighteningly blithe one-on-one with ABC News).

Here they are:

(Reality Check, Part I: "I Can Do Anything I Want, and So Can You"/1.25.07)

(Reality Check, Part II: "I Find Your Lack of Faith Disturbing"/1.26.07)

And Now, the Last Word on the Whole Sarah Jessica Parker Thing, from Chez's Evil Twin, Garth

Look, enough already, okay?

Most men think Sarah Jessica Parker is fucking ugly -- the sooner we admit this, the sooner our long national nightmare will be over.

The readers of Maxim said as much, and although most of them are blithering idiots, debating them on it -- claiming that they're wrong either for voicing this kind of opinion or for having it in the first place -- is just goddamned ridiculous. They're entitled to think whatever the hell they want and to shout it from the rooftops. This is America, after all.

Once again though, if you can't see that the average heterosexual man isn't the least bit turned on by Parker's Witchy-Poo mug, you're either blind or in denial. Seriously, go up to any guy on the street and ask him what he thinks of Parker -- there's a 90% chance he's first gonna roll his eyes because his wife, girlfriend, or booty-call just loves fucking Sex and the City and spends every Saturday night out with her borderline-retarded friends debating which character from the show she is -- then he's gonna choke back a little vomit at the thought of anyone having to look at Parker's face during sex. (So that was rude, what do you want -- I'm evil.)

But here's the thing to keep in mind: It shouldn't surprise anyone -- least of all Parker herself -- that she doesn't do it for most guys.

The character that made her famous -- the very show she was chosen to star in -- wasn't written by guys.

Sex and the City is basically the kind of fantasy that only a conference table full of women and gay men (and that metrosexual douchebag Greg Behrendt) could've dreamed up. They're the only ones who could honestly believe that straight men living in New York City would fall all over themselves to be with a woman who looks and acts like Parker's character, Carrie Bradshaw. Only a woman or a gay man would legitimately think straight men give a shit how many pairs of repulsive Jimmy Choo shoes or how many dresses that look like pink, couture garbage bags a woman has in her closet. It's like a person who's been blind since birth trying to paint a sunset, then mass market it.

Parker's entire image is the neo-feminine ideal of what a man should be attracted to. Her character was never really meant to appeal to men, which is completely cool until Parker starts bitching up a storm about how she doesn't, in fact, appeal to men (and no, Ferris Bueller doesn't count -- obviously). The women who created Parker's character and the show she inhabits -- including Parker herself -- now react with comically righteous indignation because life doesn't imitate "art" and real straight men don't give a rat's ass about Sarah Jessica Parker the way poorly-written straight characters on Sex and the City do about Carrie fucking Bradshaw.

So, no folks -- Parker's not very attractive and, as anyone not delusional would've been able to see coming, by complaining about her "poor treatment" at the hands of Maxim, she opened herself up to a shitload of fresh ridicule from all directions.

Including this one.

To close, and along those lines, I think I'll borrow a phrase from an idol of mine -- a certain oil man by the name of Plainview:

"If you have a horse face, and I have a blog -- and my blog reaches across the world, and starts to mock your horse face...

I. MOCK. YOUR. HORSE FACE.

NAYEEE-HEE-HEE-HEE!

I MOCK IT UP!"

Oh yeah, and by the way -- if you honestly think that a dislike of Sarah Jessica Parker and a willingness to get into these kinds of things automatically makes someone anti-women or anti-feminism, you're probably a fucking idiot.

(As usual, the opinions of Garth do not necessarily reflect those of Chez, who may not find Sarah Jessica Parker very attractive, but who does, in fact, like milkshakes.)

Anne Boilin'

I rest my case.

Anne Baxter as Nefretiri in The Ten Commandments.

Makes me wanna sin, big time.

Catherine the Great

One of my favorite women on planet Earth is Catherine Crier.

The journalist, best-selling author and former judge is as tenacious as she is brilliant -- and she's just written a spectacular little essay decrying the unconscionable failings of the TV news industry. It's currently a featured article over at the Huffington Post.

Do yourself a favor and read it.

(The Huffington Post: "Newsrooms Revolt!" by Catherine Crier)

Listening Post

I love Poe so much, it hurts.

She's sexy, talented, more than a little crazy, and her last album (which, from the look of it, could actually wind up being her last album) turned out to be a desert island record for me.

From that release, 2000's Haunted, here's the rarely-seen video for the absolute best song to drive to late at night: Hey Pretty.

Game (Nowhere Near) Over, Man

Just a reminder that Christmas is right around the corner and you'll soon be racking your brain trying to figure out what to get me.

Aliens: Colonial Marines, for XBOX 360 -- arriving this holiday season.

Hoo-ah!

Happy Zombie Jesus Day

Because nothing in this world has successfully eaten more brains than Christianity.

(For a truly thoughtful analysis of the Easter holiday, go here.)

Three on Ten

As is tradition on Easter weekend, ABC's airing all 14 hours of the most celebrated B-movie ever made tonight: Cecil B. DeMille's The Ten Commandments. Here now, three quick thoughts on it.

1. Heston rules. He's to melodrama what Busey is to batshit crazy.

2. When I was a kid, I had the biggest crush on Nefretiri. Anne Baxter is so fucking hot in this movie, and my lust for her character probably set the stage for a 30-year addiction to vengeful, treacherous bitches.

3. You know, leave it to the Jews to spend 400 years complaining about the pain of being in bondage instead of actually doing something about it.

(Relax kids -- they're just jokes. By the way, the picture came up when I Google Image Searched "The Ten Commandments.")

Here's the Story...

On more than one occasion over the past year or so, I've referenced a full-length manuscript that I wrote and hoped to shop to publishers. It's a memoir which chronicles, in stark detail, my heroin addiction, time in rehab and stupidly impetuous move to New York City immediately following 9/11.

While "The Book," as my wife and I call it ominously, has been considered by three major publishers -- all of whom seemed to like it, but not enough to pick it up -- only a handful of friends and family have read it cover-to-cover. I readily admit that, because of the sensitive nature of the subject matter, I've been reluctant to even shop the damn thing; I've wavered on the fate of my work -- which I'm certainly proud of having accomplished -- for months and months. As I said, only three publishing houses have seen it, which doesn't even begin to scratch the surface of possible takers.

Since first mentioning the existence of my little memoir, I've received emails and comments wanting to know when it might be published -- and each excerpt I've posted has brought more and more of these. I really can't tell you how much I appreciate the interest and the support; it's all meant quite a bit to me and may have helped me to reach a point of critical mass in my head.

So, after talking it over with Jayne, I've decided that I'm going to put my money where my mouth is -- both as a writer and someone who claims to believe in the power of new media: I'm going to release my full-length memoir via the internet. I'll make it available for download from this site, for a price that's yet to be determined. (It won't be a fortune, I promise.)

For the record, after a slew of edits and clean-ups -- the last of which is being done this week -- and a rotating host of working titles, the name of the book is Dead Star Twilight.

You'll have to trust me that it has meaning.

I'm both terrified and excited to finally be getting this thing out there, and I'll probably delve more into my decision to release it online -- what made me think that this is the way to go, all Fugazi/grass roots style -- at a later date. I'll also likely be posting one last "new" excerpt from the book before the release date.

And that release date is Tuesday, April 8th.

(Welcome to the Monkey House/6.4.07)

(The Ex Files/6.7.07)

(Imperfect Strangers/8.30.07)

(With Love and Resentment, Your Past/9.5.07)

(Listening Post: Memoir Edition/1.27.08)

Film Festivus

Follow this link: (Curbed: B+ Movie)

Do exactly what the kid says.

Vaal commands it.

(Seriously, please. I'll explain later.)

They're Just Not That Into You

Let's just get this out of the way so that you can make all appropriate fun and we can move on: I love Smokey & The Bandit.

Say what you will, the 1977 Burt Reynolds vehicle (no pun intended) is a classic; it provided my friends and me with three decades worth of quotable lines and taught us to approach life with the understanding that there's no problem that can't be solved with a Trans-am, a CB radio, a big-ass truck full of warm Coors and Paul Williams in a leisure suit. Take my word for it -- the next time you're facing a seemingly insurmountable crisis, just think to yourself WWBD?: What Would Bandit Do?

Problem solved.

While the original Smokey was probably the most mindlessly entertaining movie of all time, its sequel -- the cleverly titled Smokey & The Bandit 2 -- had not a redeeming quality to be found anywhere (unless you take into account the fact that it birthed Hollywood's gag-reel-over-the-credits trend, as the bloopers are generally the funniest part of any big-budget comedy these days). That said, I liked the movie, for reasons I'll probably never quite understand; I imagine it's the same inexplicable thought process which causes me to insist that the Backstreet Boys' I Want It That Way is the best pop song ever.

Although Smokey 2 was, I admit, almost entirely forgettable, it contained one particular scene that somehow managed to stick with me throughout the years, simply because -- believe it or not -- it actually said a hell of a lot about not just the culture of celebrity, but about celebrities themselves. And while I have no doubt that any profound theme or underlying esoterica to be found in the film was wholly unintentional on the part of the producers -- this was the same movie, after all, that played a pregnant elephant and Jackie Gleason doing a flaming gay stereotype for laughs -- that doesn't mean it wasn't there.

Hear me out: As the movie begins, the Bandit is a burned out shell of his former self. He's heartbroken over the loss of his one true love, played by Sally Field, but he's also bitter and angry because he understands that it was his own arrogance and narcissism that drove her away. The audience comes to find out that at some point after the events depicted in the first film -- and, one would have to assume, because of those events -- the Bandit became a nationwide sensation. If this entire premise isn't a textbook example of post-modern meta-fiction, I have no idea what is, given that it's impossible to imagine a bootlegger, one whose most notable achievement involved outsmarting a dimwitted Texas trooper, becoming a household name -- unless he happened to be a character played by Burt Reynolds in a hugely successful movie. Then again, I could be wrong about the ability of a Georgia beer-runner to become famous, in which case Smokey 2 isn't so much "meta" as it is the most subtle and prescient indictment of the media's growing ability to create insta-stars (because you just know that it would be the local news coverage of the Bandit and Snowman's highway antics, and the resulting traffic nightmare, which catapults them into the spotlight) since Network. As the film unfolds further, the Bandit attempts to regain not only the love and affection of his adorable inamorata, but his former notoriety. Unfortunately, these two goals are mutually exclusive, as the Bandit finds out, namely because the cocky swagger that's required to reclaim his "World's Most Famous Bootlegger" crown will drive his girl away, while the humility sure to earn him undying love will likely make him a nobody. It's the ultimate Faustian conundrum.

The whole thing comes to a head in what I think is the pivotal moment in this particular story arc -- the scene to which I'm referring.

At one point, the Bandit is forced to stop for gas -- Trans-am enthusiasts are familiar with this necessity -- and that's where he gets into a row with a clerk whom he believes is guilty of an unforgivable transgression: While the guy does, in fact, know just whose presence he's being graced by -- he's aware of the Bandit's status as a celebrity -- he doesn't give a shit. He thinks the Bandit's an arrogant asshole. This snub causes the Bandit to throw a juvenile tantrum, grabbing the clerk by the throat and shouting in his face: "Women love me! Little kids love me! Now you're gonna love me or I'm gonna kick your ass!"

That one line says everything you need to know about how those who've been in the spotlight too long -- who've gotten used to the warm and comforting glow of perpetual adulation -- can come to feel about themselves and their place in the cultural strata.

It's called believing your own hype.

Why do I bring this up?

Because Sarah Jessica Parker is furious that Maxim men's magazine dubbed her "The World's Unsexiest Woman."

In a recent interview in Grazia magazine, Parker reveals that she and her husband, conspicuously effeminate actor Matthew Broderick, were hurt and offended by the insult -- which Parker calls "brutal" -- and had a difficult time putting the whole ordeal behind them.

Feel free to take a moment to grab a tissue if you need one -- I'll wait.

Parker throws down the gauntlet in the interview, simultaneously defending her "sexiness" and attacking Maxim's core audience of 20-something, stripe-shirted potential date-rapists by saying:

“Do I have big fake boobs, Botox and big lips? No. Do I fit some ideals and standards of some men writing in a men’s magazine? Maybe not."

While Parker makes a valid argument, albeit in a referential way, about the unfortunate female ideal in our society -- to say that she's both missing the point and in no legitimate position to be making a point (not this one, anyway) is an understatement.

It's no secret that I find Sarah Jessica Parker startlingly unattractive; I state as much in my personal bio, which stands as the first thing most readers see when they visit this site. I say this not because I'm some troglodyte who's personally offended that she doesn't meet the Americanized standard of perfection that I believe all women -- certainly celebrities -- should aspire to. I don't care that she doesn't have silicone breasts or surgically enhanced lips. I don't stand on the virtual playground throwing rocks at the "ugly girl" because, when compared to a predetermined set of others, she doesn't stack up (once again, no pun intended). Parker's beauty, or lack thereof, isn't a relative thing. I just don't think she's the least bit attractive -- far from it.

What's worth noting, though, is who I'm really taking a shot at in my bio. Here's a hint: It's not Sarah Jessica Parker. For reasons I wish I didn't understand, the slavish, celeb-obsessed media have anointed Parker -- a somewhat homely, unspectacular actress -- the patron saint of high-fashion and feminism-through-sexual-empowerment. In a staggeringly audacious parlor trick, Hollywood and the media have managed to convince an impressionable public that Parker actually is the character she played on television: Sex & The City's hideously dressed bed-hopper, Carrie Bradshaw. This isn't the first time that docile consumers have plugged into the Matrix and either forgotten or chosen to ignore the line between fantasy and reality; Sex & The City in particular has turned such oversight into a cottage industry. (Case in point: Kim Cattrall surreally penning several sexual self-help books, the apparent implication being: "My character fucks a lot on TV, ergo, I'm qualified to help you with your sex life." If you follow this idiotic line of reasoning, we should be sending Stallone over to clean house in Iraq and you'll want to give Hugh Laurie a call the next time you're puking up blood.) Which begs the question: Would I be singling-out Sarah Jessica Parker for a mild amount of mockery if she were just your average actress or quasi-celeb -- and not pushed 24/7 as a style-maker and one-woman cultural zeitgeist?

No, of course not.

And neither would Maxim.

Maxim's shot at Parker, like mine, wasn't aimed at her; it was aimed at her image. The magazine doesn't truly believe that Sarah Jessica Parker is the unsexiest woman in the world. (There's no goddamn way she's less attractive than Amy Winehouse.) It's implying that she's the unsexiest woman we've all been conditioned to believe is sexy. There's no doubt that Parker doesn't fit the Maxim mold -- and that by hitting her hard, the magazine also insults Sex & The City's legion of vapid, clownish female acolytes (the women your average Maxim reader will claim to detest but who, ironically, represent the easiest targets at the bar on Friday night). But that's all sort of the point, and it's one that Parker is apparently too self-absorbed or insecure to take into account. She's not Maxim magazine's type.

So, why the hell should she let it bother her that a magazine not aimed at her -- in fact, aimed at a demographic she considers rather Neanderthal -- has labeled her "unsexy?"

Why is it necessary to be all things to all people?

For the record, Grazia magazine -- the one in which Parker's interview appears -- is a fashion glossy based out of London. This week's issue invites readers to enter a contest, the grand prize of which is an invitation to an exclusive Emilio Pucci fashion show. For the extraordinarily obtuse, allow me to rephrase: An interview with Sarah Jessica Parker appears in a London fashion magazine. If you haven't been to the grocery store lately, you've also missed Parker's airbrushed face peering across the conveyor at you from the covers of Vogue and Cosmo. Add to that the fact that the Sex & The City movie and all the accompanying publicity will soon be dropped onto America's doorstep like dogshit in a flaming paper bag, and you realize that Maxim magazine's juvenile decree hasn't hurt Parker's career one bit. Even if you think she's monstrously repulsive, she's the most successful monstrously repulsive woman on the planet -- dragging her big bag of money from her home under a bridge right to the bank. Maxim's readers and editors shouldn't even matter. Personally, I wouldn't have known about the Maxim poll had it not been for Parker's decision to, apparently, take a stand for the rights of ugly girls. While I'm willing to concede that this entire "controversy" may itself have been concocted by a clever studio publicist, it doesn't alter the fact that Sarah Jessica Parker suddenly looks like nothing more than a petulant child who's crying because the big meanies said bad things about her.

She suddenly looks like someone who's been in the spotlight for so long -- who's become so used to the comforting glow of perpetual adulation; who's become such a believer in her own hype -- that she's shocked and confused when someone doesn't see in her what everyone else seems to. Another possibility, one far more alarming, would be that she's come to believe not only that her status is a right as opposed to a privilege, but that it's also made her unassailable.

"You're gonna come out here and love me, or I'm gonna kick your ass!"

Or there's always the chance that Maxim simply reminded her of the truth that she knows full well: That under all that makeup, after all those cover shoots and fashion shows, in spite of all that acclaim and lionization -- she's really kind of unattractive.

Listening Post

By now, just about anyone who's a fan of the "alternative" genre has heard the story of Vampire Weekend.

Admittedly, it's the kind of practically-unbelievable tale of overnight success about which most bands can only dream. Around this time last year, Vampire Weekend were playing frat parties on the Columbia University campus, where the members of the band were students. Today, they're pretty much the most talked about indie group on the planet.

Believe it or not, all the buzz actually leads to a surprisingly decent band for a change.

Here's Vampire Weekend's A-Punk.

Bliss

For the first time in my life, I just can't find the words.

(Because there are those within the family of Jayne and myself who don't want to know whether our baby is a boy or a girl, I won't post that information here on the main page. Spoiler Alert: For those interested in learning the details, click the comment link. Anyone wishing to be kept in the dark -- you've been warned.)

Coming Attraction

I realize I've been MIA lately, and for that I apologize. Tomorrow, I'll be going public with details of the project that I've been working so on diligently this past week.

Can't promise it'll have been worth the wait, but at least it should mark the return of regular columns to this site.

Tune in tomorrow.

A Moment with Admiral Ackbar

Listening Post

This is without a doubt the best amateur video I've ever come across. It's just mind-blowingly cool.

Gary Numan vs. Christian Bale -- Crazier

Thanks, the Management

I should probably take a minute to let everyone know that the next week or so will probably see a decrease in the number of substantive posts around these parts. I'll continue to put up a few things here and there, and obviously if something strikes a nerve I'll be sure to expound on it.

I'm working on a rather large project right now though -- one I promise to offer more details on in the coming days.

Until then, this will keep you occupied.

Listening Post: St. Patrick's Day Edition

Dropkick Murphys -- I'm Shipping Up to Boston.

Listening Post: Bonus Weekend Edition

One minute and twenty seconds of pure "fuck you" rock and roll.

The Vines -- Gross Out.

Interlude

A Good Kristen

Well, I'll say one thing for Spitzer -- he certainly got his money's worth.

Listening Post

I started the week with a really good cover and I'll end it the same way.

Here's Placebo, doing Kate Bush's passionate classic Running Up That Hill.

Everything Is Under Control

There's a terrific movie from the late 90s that's been on my mind quite a bit over the past couple of days.

David Fincher's wonderfully creepy gem The Game had the misfortune of falling between the director's masterworks -- it was released after Se7en and before Fight Club -- and as such is now largely overlooked. For those who haven't seen it, the film stars Michael Douglas as an icy corporate baron whose perfectly self-structured life begins to unravel after his brother, played by Sean Penn, enrolls him in a mysterious "game," supposedly for the purpose of helping him relax. Douglas's character is initially told that he'll never know exactly when the game -- which has been specifically tailored to his personality -- begins. But what starts as a series of seemingly harmless pranks eventually turns sadistic and terrifying, with the main character running for his life, unable to tell what's real, what isn't, or how to make any of it stop.

The movie never fails to breathe with an uncomfortable sense of dread, despite the fact that its entire storyline -- every frightening twist and turn -- can be negated by the viewer with one single thought:

None of this is real. It's all part of the game.

Last night in Washington DC, Hillary Clinton prostrated herself before a gathering of black newspaper publishers, unleashing a torrent of apologies for recent comments made by Geraldine Ferraro -- the perpetually irritable former presidential candidate who until yesterday was an honorary member of the Clinton campaign. Over the past few weeks, Ferraro has regaled anyone willing to listen with her theory that Barack Obama owes his current political fortunes to the color of his skin, saying that if he were white, or a woman, voters wouldn't be paying attention to him. Although Ferraro has resigned her position with Camp Clinton, telling Hillary that she doesn't want to see the campaign damaged by unnecessary controversy, she's anything but contrite. Last night on NBC, not long before Keith Olbermann's brutal on-air denunciation of her comments, Ferraro arrogantly insisted that she was the victim of a witch hunt and that it was the Obama camp who owed her an apology. She's gone on to say that she's under attack for being white and that Obama supporters are attempting to violate her first amendment rights -- rights she plans to continue exercising now that she's gone Ronin from the Clinton campaign proper.

While I admire Ferraro's tenacity and refusal to offer up the traditional insincere apology, a firm spine doesn't necessarily prove the existence of a functional brain: What Ferraro said was astonishingly stupid.

But here's the thing -- it was also completely predictable.

Despite her well-deserved status as a trailblazer in politics, Geraldine Ferraro is one of the Beltway's most infamous loose cannons. She's a reliable fountain of bitter rhetoric and a stubbornly pious crusader for her own brand of logic. She's the political Terminator: She won't listen to reason and she can't be bargained with once she's acquired her target, whatever or whomever that may be. What's important though is that she's been this way for decades. Geraldine Ferraro isn't some untested neophyte with stars in her eyes and a blank slate for a reputation, and Hillary Clinton knew as much when she brought her on-board the campaign. Clinton was well aware of what kind of product she was buying from the very beginning -- and make no mistake, she got exactly what she wanted. Taking a page from her legal background, she implicitly allowed for a pejorative statement to be made in court that would sway the jury, but from which she could officially distance herself. Clinton now has the best of both worlds: An "evil twin" doing the dirty work -- raising the vilest of bullshit controversies to anxious voters -- and not simply clean hands but the added benefit of being able to play both ends against the middle by publicly repudiating the actions of the other half.

We've seen this before from the Clintons -- many times. It smacks of the kind of political opportunism and self-satisfied aren't-we-clever machinations for which they've become legendary.

There's the chance that I'm wrong about all of this, of course -- that Hillary Clinton gave no more thought to hiring Geraldine Ferraro than she would have to any other heavyweight ally, and that she was as repulsed by Ferraro's ridiculous comments as the rest of us.

But how can anyone tell anymore?

At this point, is it really so foolish to assume that everything we see is just part of the game?

Project Office Mayhem

Your assignment, as usual: Quietly put the following link up on every computer in your office, then crank all the speakers to full volume.

Mischief points: 150

If you happen to work for Clear Channel: 1,322

(All Your Radio Are Belong to Us)

Eliot Mess

Back when I was first starting out in TV news, I worked closely with a male reporter who had a reputation for being an insatiable office lothario. A considerable portion of his spare time while on th