Bride and Prejudice

It's always interesting when something occurs that soundly answers a question you hadn't even thought to ask.

For example: I never specifically came right out and said to myself or anyone else, "Gee, I wonder what could make me want to punch Patrick Dempsey in the face even more than I already do?"

And yet -- Made of Honor.

As much as it pains me to bring up a certain unattractive HBO star and once again risk the wrath of her fawning acolytes, I have to, merely for the sake of a point of reference: Patrick Dempsey is basically the male version of Sarah Jessica Parker*. Both began their careers as homely, geeky teenagers (he in mindless dreck like Can't Buy Me Love, she on TV's Square Pegs); both saw a career resurgence and hit their professional highs while pushing middle-age; both star in shows that have been elevated to near-religion status by a nationwide army of really stupid women (he's on Grey's Anatomy, she was on Sex and the City); both are "hot" only in the most perfunctory sense -- when viewed through eyes that have never ventured beyond the local grocery store and filtered through a complete lack of imagination -- and yet both have been surreally canonized as sex symbols and fashion plates by a slavish, celeb-obsessed media. There's just nothing at all special about either of them, and yet the kind of women who will do anything Oprah commands want nothing more than to sleep with one and be the other.

These Cosmo-queens and Pretend-Prada-princesses are, needless to say, the same women who can be blamed for the seemingly endless glut of big-budget Fairytale Wedding-themed romantic comedies -- otherwise known as porn for needy girls.

And what's the latest insipid Hollywood offering in this creatively exhausted genre?

Why, Made of Honor, of course.

It only makes sense that Patrick Dempsey would eventually be enlisted to carry one these tedious eye-rollers, playing the kind of imaginary, über-sensitive anti-Tyler Durden character that only a female screenwriter could create; he's the perfect Stepford Leading Man and he's already got mealy TV-himbo cred to spare thanks to the whole Dr. McDreamy thing (a monicker which tells you, all on its own, just who his core audience is -- I mean really, who but a slightly doughy Ambush Makeover candidate would call somebody "McDreamy?"). Dempsey taking the lightweight reins of a movie that sounds startlingly like a recycled J-Lo vehicle is about as obvious as the fact that the same movie will soon be playing on TBS every night of every weekend.

There's no point debating why it is that "chick flicks" generally fall into one of two categories -- they're melodramatic, celluloid psychotherapy aimed at dredging up dormant mother/daughter issues, or Prince Charming fantasies designed to fuck women into an orgasmic frenzy with the gargantuan penis of unrealistic expectations. Either way, the endgame is generally the same for the men and smart women forced to suffer someone who's adopted the belief system of these movies as gospel: indulge her when possible, pity her behind her back and hope that a new and better girlfriend/friend comes along at some point to replace her and her neuroses forever (thereby confirming her latent suspicions that she's "not good enough"). If you're a man, you don't want to be anywhere near someone who plans to drop ten bucks on Made of Honor. In fact, a love of Patrick Dempsey and the desire to see this movie might function as a sort of litmus test to weed out the women you should run screaming from -- the ones whose hopes and dreams involve crap you'll never care about. As for the XX-chromo opposites of the rom-com crowd -- the sharp, funny, worldly women who represent the brass ring within the American gene pool -- you'll probably need to avoid the Dempsey fans as well, since I can't see a smart girl wanting to listen to a man-crazy basket case whining to her on the phone at 3am because her one-night-stand hasn't called back or her boyfriend won't ask her to marry him.

Bottom Line -- see Iron Man this weekend.

It's got a more believable storyline than Made of Honor, and a much better leading man.

(*This is contingent on Sarah Jessica Parker not, in fact, being the male version of Sarah Jessica Parker.)

Listening Post

Somewhere between Dirty Vegas and Faithless lies a band called Syntax.

They lasted just a couple of years and recorded only one album -- Meccano Mind, back in 2003 -- but it was a pretty memorable effort.

Here's a DIY video for a song I never seem to get tired of listening to: Pride.

The First Rule of Mamet Is, You Do Not Talk About Mamet

Alright, did somebody spike my Crystal Lite with Felix the Cat acid?

Is Redbelt really a martial arts movie starring Chiwetel Ejiofor and Tim Allen -- and directed by David Fucking Mamet?

Dear God.

Coming Soon: Takashi Miike's remake of Sense & Sensibility, starring Sonny Chiba and William H. Macy

Instinct vs. Extinct

Last week, I wrote a piece which asked why being staunchly liberal seems to go hand-in-hand with being overly-analytical and thoroughly humorless (Why So Serious?/4.25.08). To help prove my point, I mentioned the blogging battle that went on recently between Rolling Stone columnist Matt Taibbi and Methuselan feminist icon Erica Jong.

I made no bones about whom I was siding with in their hilarious little flamewar -- and all you have to do is read the latest material from each to get a clear indication of why I think one is exactly the kind of voice the American left needs right now and the other is a tired and ridiculous cliché who should just go ahead and die already.

(Rolling Stone: "Jesus Made Me Puke" by Matt Taibbi)

(The Huffington Post: "Natural Nudists Unite!" by Erica Jong)

Listening Post

Yesterday it was Hollywood, today it's New York City.

These guys made a minor splash here in the states but went on to blow-up big in Europe. Either way, they're all kinds of cool.

Fun Lovin' Criminals -- The King of New York.

Heaven's Cates

This past weekend, my wife and I were sitting on our couch, scanning the various cable channels, when we came across Fast Times at Ridgemont High on HBO. For the first time in probably about a decade and a half, I watched -- from start to finish -- the unedited version of a movie that remains one of the defining moments of my early teen years. Today, I'm reposting this piece from almost exactly a year ago to help you understand why.

Although not as often associated with the supernatural these days as, say, San Francisco or New Orleans, New York City still manages to project its fair share of mythological allure -- it being, after all, America's one and only true "gotham," as well as the home of the Ghostbusters. Yet in spite of a past steeped in creepy mystery and a present littered with the East Village-Stygian, Anne Rice-a-Looney goofballs who find themselves drawn to such nonsense, my adopted home has never presented me with a paranormal experience worthy of note -- unless of course you count the tendency of my credit card to inexplicably disappear at some point every Saturday night.

No matter how much magic this city may hold, it's just never shown me any of "that old, black" variety.

That is until this past weekend.

Contrary to what you may have been led to believe by the aforementioned Ghostbusters, the true superconductive antenna for psychokinetic activity in New York City isn't a foreboding art deco-style apartment building on Central Park West -- even though it was directly in front of one such building that Yoko Ono incomprehensibly dodged five bullets taken by John Lennon; it is in fact a small and rather unassuming boutique, bas-relief etched into the face of one of the many tony, monolithic pre-wars along the Upper East Side. Inside this quaint little shop, the laws of time and space are nothing more than mercurial afterthoughts, infallible clairvoyance is commonplace, and grown men can be reduced to desperate, hyperventilative sobs in the face of the kind of religious experience that makes Saul's road-to-Damascus conversion look like a dizzy spell.

The shop is called Blue Tree.

It is owned and operated by Phoebe Cates.

As in that Phoebe Cates.

As in THAT Phoebe Cates.

For those of you who, A) aren't heterosexual males, and B) didn't come of age -- and given the subject matter, you'll forgive the pun -- in the early 1980s, the overwhelming magnitude of what I've just implied will no doubt escape you; the rest of you -- the straight men my age -- understand precisely of what I'm speaking and, as such, I'll give you the few moments necessary to properly collect yourselves.

A lot's been made over the years of the monumental impact that Phoebe Cates's seminal scene -- once again, you'll pardon the pun -- in 1982's Fast Times at Ridgemont High had on an entire generation of men. I have nothing to add to the discussion, simply because I can't; the singular import of that thirty seconds of film -- its initial and continued effect -- cannot be overstated. I still look upon the act of Phoebe, as sex kitten Linda Barrett, unclasping her red bikini top in slow-motion to the hypnotic purr of the Cars' Moving in Stereo with more reverence than my first real sexual experience; they each lasted about the same amount of time, but the girl who unwittingly took part in the former was Phoebe Cates -- whereas the latter involved a slightly overweight fifteen-year-old who would, a month later, surprise me by running out of her house, suitcase in hand, as I pulled into her driveway -- then spend the next hour begging me to help her run away while her heavy metal brother threatened to destroy my car with an aluminum baseball bat.

Phoebe offered no such threat of bodily harm or imminent arrest though; she was just the perfect girl exposing for me and the rest of my generation her perfect, perfect body. The fact that the overactive imagination of Judge Reinhold's character in Fast Times was the very reason for Phoebe's nudity in the first place created what to this day remains one of the greatest meta-reality moments in film history -- with poor, put-upon, Pirate Brad both standing-in for every male member of the audience at the time and creating the very masturbatory fantasy we'd all take with us to the grave.

To this day, I still fantasize about Phoebe Cates, and that one glorious scene. Like almost every single straight man my age, I long to watch her rise up out of the pool and say the words, "Hi (insert your name here), you know how cute I always thought you were."

I want her to stride toward me in the slow, fluid motion that resembles nothing less than one long, orgasmic sigh -- pull open her bikini top -- and kiss me passionately.

I've wanted this for twenty-five years.

And you know what? Phoebe Cates knows this.

My wife and I had just spent the afternoon taking a leisurely stroll through Central Park -- literally, walking from the zoo at 60th street, all the way up to 91st and 5th Avenue -- when we stumbled upon Phoebe's little boutique. We were both tangentially aware of the shop, having read in one magazine or another a profile which mentioned Blue Tree and its noteworthy proprietor, and so, finally being in the neighborhood, we decided to stop in.

Of course I'm making this decision sound like a much more nonchalant affair than it actually was. The reality is that my heart was in my throat before my hand even touched the door; by the time the thing actually opened and I felt the rush of cool air from inside, I had devolved into a thirteen-year-old again; and when I glanced across the store and saw her -- well, you could've cleaned me off the floor with a bucket and a mop. As I stepped inside and heard the door whisper shut behind me, I suddenly felt as if I'd just downed three shots of Absinthe. Possessing both a preternatural forethought and an unparalleled concern for my well-being, my wife actually turned to me as I floated down the steps into the store, gave me an amused smile, and asked, "You gonna be okay?" I'm pretty sure that I attempted to answer but nothing translatable came out -- the words I'd put together in my head escaping my mouth in the form of two or three feeble, high-pitched squeaks.

As Phoebe walked out from behind the register stand and I finally saw her -- head to toe -- I almost collapsed. She looked, she looks, as if she hasn't aged a day since turning twenty-five. She's as beautiful and youthful now as she was in 1982 -- a fact which is more than a little spooky. She's gorgeous, she's thin -- she remains perfect.

Time indeed seemed to slow as she moved toward me, the music coming from the shop's overhead speakers not the Cars, but something even more narcotic: Fleetwood Mac's Gold Dust Woman. She wore a tight black sweater and matching black pants rather than the red bikini I'd dreamed of most of my life. Still, she flashed that flawless smile as she squeezed past me, en route to help a customer who'd gotten her attention -- and when we looked directly into each other's eyes, that's when it hit me.

I'm the naked one.

There are very few times in life that a person can literally read another's thoughts -- that someone can be reduced to the proverbial open book. In that moment, not only did I realize that Phoebe knew exactly what was going through my head, I understood that she was capable of pulling this same trick day after day, hour after hour -- with almost every single man she meets. She knows what they're all thinking -- every one of them, without fail. She knows they're all exactly like me, and in a twist worthy of a Hollywood ending, the guys who once ogled her nakedness are now the ones exposed.

The realization was enough to make me look away quickly -- feeling no small amount of embarrassment -- before finally turning back to face her again, smiling and nodding at the exquisite irony of it all.

Phoebe Cates read my mind.

The Crystal Method to His Madness

When I learned that Richard Quest had been busted with meth in his pocket, my first reaction was to chuckle a little and shake my head.

"Well, that explains a lot," I said to my wife.

Just about anyone who's seen the manic, occasionally unnerving on-air antics of CNN's resident eccentric Brit has probably -- at one time or another -- asked him or herself just what the hell Quest is on. The fact that, as it turns out, the answer is crank is as shocking as it is, well, not very shocking at all. During my years at CNN, particularly the time I spent as a senior producer in Atlanta, I admit that I rarely passed up an opportunity to put Quest on television; no matter where he was or what he was covering, his humor and brash unpredictability brought a welcome shot of pure adrenaline to the typically staid CNN proceedings. I looked forward to his stories, never doubting that they would provide the most memorable moments in any broadcast, and considered the man himself to be something of a rock star -- a true "personality" in a place that was, for the most part, sorely lacking any. His pieces didn't always carry the kind of weight that would make him a first or even second block hit, but there was no denying his special brand of insane gravitas.

Quest has always been one-of-a-kind, and despite the current scandal surrounding him, he's someone CNN is wise not to be summarily throwing to the wolves. But the fact that he does still have a job at the network, after what could very well be the most embarrassing arrest in recent memory, is a bit of a head-scratcher to someone whom CNN unceremoniously fired almost three months ago for the apparently unpardonable sin of personal blogging (Say What You Will/2.18.08). I admit, it just doesn't seem fair: Quest breaks the law and becomes a walking punchline and CNN issues an official press release wishing him a speedy recovery during his obligatory stint in rehab; I write on my own time, never once identifying myself as a network employee, and I'm sent packing with no warning and no severance -- despite my supervisors' knowledge that my wife and I are expecting our first child in August. Quest likely violated a morality clause in his contract and not only drew negative publicity to CNN, but may have damaged his future credibility beyond repair (as much as I'd like to believe otherwise, I'm not sure anyone will be able to look at him for quite some time without wondering what's wrapped around his crotch or stuffed into his boot), while I failed to note a single and comically vague line in the employee handbook which supposedly forbade me to write anything at anytime without first having it approved by CNN standards and practices.

CNN shouldn't fire Richard Quest, but if his indiscretion doesn't meet the threshold for termination then my offense didn't even come close.

For the record, I'm well aware of the -- pardon the pun -- bind that CNN finds itself in with respect to Quest: By predictably checking into rehab, he's making the claim that he has a serious drug problem, rather than simply being a recreational user (believe it or not, those still exist), and therefore wasn't responsible for his actions on the night of his arrest; the network can't legally abandon him. Meanwhile, whatever sexual kinks Quest may indulge in are his business and his alone; once again, from both a lawsuit-avoidance and a public relations standpoint, CNN can't be seen to cast a disapproving eye on his lifestyle. But it's damn interesting that a news network wouldn't be willing to risk offending the gay community -- and before anyone grabs the phone and begins dialing GLAAD, of course I'm not implying that gay-equals-deviant -- yet has no problem hanging both proponents of new media and the first amendment itself out to dry.

What this likely all comes down to, however, is something that was mentioned to me several times during the hoopla over my untimely dismissal: Many of those who were kind enough to support me wanted to know why CNN continued to pay opinionated blowhards like Lou Dobbs and Nancy Grace, yet found a writer with a personal opinion -- someone working completely outside the confines of the office -- to be unworthy of a place at the network. Needless to say, the reason was that the former -- the big-budget talent -- was using its collective voice to make money for CNN and Time Warner, while the latter wasn't. (He wasn't making money period.) It always comes down to ratings and revenue, and there's a reason that on-air talent is paid more than those behind the scenes: It brings in the dollars. Viewers will never tune in to watch the work of a smart producer or manager, but they'll damn sure be in front of their TVs if they like watching Lou Dobbs complain about Mexicans.

It's ironic that Richard Quest's notoriety as a familiar face on CNN is not only what made his arrest such a big deal, it's what will wind up saving his job in the aftermath of it. I love to watch him too, but that doesn't make the double-standard right -- the one that saves his job and not that of someone working behind the scenes.

Next time, I'm checking into rehab -- or if I've already been there, can I just grandfather that in?

Cali-FUN-ication!

Some people think that life in California is easy -- but it's really hard work.





We've got board meetings.








Lots of board meetings!






We're always playing catch up.



We're really just a bunch of pencil pushers.





We work with some real characters.








We're always working weekends.










We burn the midnight oil.






Hey, it's a dirty job...


...But somebody's gotta do it.

So, if this looks like your kind of work, we've got just one question for you:

WHEN CAN YOU START?

Listening Post

While digging through a box filled with old clothes over the weekend, I came across a Public Enemy t-shirt, from the Fear of a Black planet tour -- the one during which I was lucky enough to interview Chuck D and a pre-VH1-embarrassment Flavor Flav.

Putting it on took me back to a time when hip-hop mattered.

Here's the unstoppable PE, with Ice Cube and Big Daddy Kane -- Burn Hollywood Burn.

Achy Breaky Tart (Redux)

Oh, and it just keeps getting better and better.

(The Huffington Post: Miley Cyrus Poses Topless for Vanity Fair)

That sound you hear is parents screaming, pre-teen girls crying and pre-teen boys having their very first orgasms.

Revenge Is a Dish Best Served Old

Why So Serious?

It might be time to once again make an important point crystal clear: I'm neither conservative nor liberal. My attitude is that if each side of the aisle finds good reason to dislike the things I say, my opinions, my overall tone, etc., then I'm doing something right.

That said, I have a question for those who count themselves among America's "staunchly liberal" contingent; it involves something I've noticed as I scan the content on the Huffington Post -- the reaction to my pieces as well as the contributions of others.

Why the hell do liberals tend to take everything so goddamned seriously?

I bring this up because there's a tidal wave of righteous indignation gaining momentum across the blogosphere at the moment in response to an ill-advised but relatively harmless comment made by, of all people, Keith Olbermann. While discussing the future of Hillary Clinton's campaign with Newsweek columnist and sycophantic turd Howard Fineman, Olbermann responded to the notion that someone might have to step in to settle the Democratic primary by saying, "Right -- somebody who can take her into a room and only he comes out." This was admittedly a really stupid thing to say and, whether forced to or not, Olbermann quickly apologized to those who might have felt that he recommended physically beating the hell out of Clinton. "It is a metaphor. The generic 'he' gender could imply something untoward. It should've been 'only the other comes out -- from a political point of view,'" he said in an official statement.

Only an idiot would fail to notice an undercurrent of sexism among MSNBC's male anchors: Chris Matthews, David Shuster and former MS host Don Imus have all made comments about women that they then had to retract. But likewise, does anyone with a brain really believe that Keith Olbermann was, in fact, suggesting that a man physically harm Hillary Clinton?

Like Shuster's infamous "pimping-out Chelsea" line before it, Olbermann's remark is nothing more than an offhand shot taken by a guy who's essentially talking to hear himself talk. And while it may reveal something about Olbermann's true attitude toward women, once again, I doubt very seriously that he was taking out a hit on Hillary.

And yet, judging by the response from some on the left, you'd think that was exactly what he'd done.

Keep in mind, this is Keith Olbermann we're talking about -- someone who's been a hero to liberal America by giving it the kind of public voice it hasn't had in years. As silly as I thought it was to pitch a fit over John Gibson's comments about Heath Ledger's death, or what O'Reilly and that buffoon Limbaugh have to say about anything at all, at least the outrage was aimed in the, pardon the pun, right direction. These people are the left's sworn enemies; it makes sense to try to play "gotcha" with them, no matter how ineffectual such outrage may be. But Olbermann is ostensibly one of their own; turning on him not only shoots your own cause in the foot, it actually goes a long way in proving why the Democrats can't seem to win an election to save their lives: Republicans are organized -- they get behind a set of people and a set of talking points, no matter how ridiculous, and they stay there. To the left, this kind of unwavering True Belief is stubborn and robotic and proves that your average red-stater can't think for himself. But guess what? It wins elections.

In the past couple of weeks alone, I've been castigated by commenters on HuffPost for titling a column about Gloria Allred "Burn the Witch" ("What's wrong with you? How can you say something like that?"); I've been accused of insulting children ("Kids should rule the world. Imagine a world where children could vote: 'Do you think your mommmy and daddy should be sent to Iraq? Yes or No?'"); and, my personal favorite, I've been raked over the coals for my insensitivity toward lunatic cults ("Saying that someone 'drank the Kool-aid' is cruel to those who died at Jonestown."). And I'm not out there by myself when it comes to facing the wrath of the supposedly free-thinking perpetually aggrieved: Earlier this month, Rolling Stone columnist Matt Taibbi got into a blogging row with aging sex writer and pompous liberal cliché Erica Jong after he wrote a piece which referred to Hillary Clinton as "flabby." Jong didn't just go after Taibbi -- because that would be positively Philistine for someone as erudite and evolved as she is; No, Jong analyzed Taibbi's crack to death before finally coming to the conclusion that -- and I swear, she was serious about this -- insulting Hillary's appearance was a form of Freudian displacement designed to help Taibbi come to terms with the fact that he wants to have sex with his mother. In his own defense, Taibbi responded by just cutting to the chase and calling Jong a worthless hack -- which not only had the benefit of being true, it was infinitely more amusing to read.

Once again, Matt Taibbi is about as liberal as they come -- and yet those who consider themselves, I suppose, the humorless liberal "elite" (and I don't use that term the way the right often does) see no harm in eating their own. I truly believe that, as with Jong, it stems from the constant need to overcomplicate and overanalyze issues as a means of showing off one's superior intellect, and the inability to just go from point-A to point-B in a straight fucking line.

It would actually be funny if it weren't so sad -- and so antithetical to what the left hopes to accomplish, particularly in an election year. I hate the far right wingnuts like poison, but for the most part they can take a fucking joke and don't convene a press conference when somebody offends them, which is one of the reasons they've had such a powerful voice in this country for the last several years.

Jesus people, lighten up -- or you'll die trying (and by that, I don't mean that I'm advocating violence against you).

Crime and No Punishment?

I grew up in Miami during the 80s, which means that I lived through three major race riots before I was 20-years-old. All were the result of police either killing black men or being acquitted of killing black men. The largest of the three, the 1980 Liberty City riot, left 18 people dead -- ironically, yet not surprisingly, 8 whites and 10 blacks. The chaos it produced in the streets was almost impossible to describe: buildings were burned; businesses were looted; snipers fired at cars driving along I-95; the National Guard was called in; the situation was so frightening at one point that according to Miami Herald reporter Edna Buchanan, the staff of the paper, holed up in their downtown offices, raided the cafeteria and poured cooking oil down the building's loading ramp to prevent rioters from getting to the Herald's rear entrance.

Liberty City remained the most notable race riot in modern history, until April of 1992 -- when Los Angeles exploded.

By now, everyone knows the story: Four white L.A. cops were captured on video beating Rodney King, yet were acquitted by a jury made up of whites, a Latino and an Asian. For six days following the verdict, Los Angeles burned. When it was all over, 53 people were dead.

I was 22-years-old and had been in TV news only a couple of months when it happened. It would be another few years before I moved to Los Angeles, but to watch it go up in flames -- this place which even at the time represented a kind of personal manifest destiny for me -- was heartbreaking, particularly after having lived through Miami's calamitous recent past. I wasn't sure what to make of the verdict; it seemed almost incomprehensible to most who watched the videotape of the King beating that those wielding the batons and Taser could be found not guilty. I was among that group; I remember reacting with outrage at what seemed to be an unmitigated injustice. Although not willing to give anyone a pass for torching half a city and savagely attacking the innocent, I could understand the anger felt by many of those who took to the streets. Under then-Police Chief Daryl Gates, the LAPD had metastasized into a cold, brutish machine -- one which seemed to function more as the armed enforcers of a dictatorial state than a community police force whose job it was to protect and serve. The force as a whole inspired more fear than respect, and as far as anyone could tell, Gates was just fine with that. In the wake of the verdict, I had quite a few lengthy conversations about this subject with my father, who happened to be a veteran of the Miami-Dade Police Department.

My father's take on the acquittal in Los Angeles was unconscionable to me at the time, though not surprising given his background: He felt that despite the inflammatory nature of the videotape evidence, it didn't really prove a thing. As an ex-cop, he was of course approaching it from the standpoint that no one can know exactly what it's like to be a police officer dealing with an explosive, potentially life-threatening situation. Yes, the tape seemed to show a submissive and subdued Rodney King being viciously clubbed for no justifiable reason, but there was more to what was happening than the snapshot of the overall incident that had been captured on video. (In fact, there was even more footage on the tape itself, which the public never saw but the jury did.) Knowing what most cops have to endure on a daily basis and what can go through the mind of even the best-trained officer in a moment of extreme stress, my father was willing to give the King cops the benefit of the doubt and demand more information before rendering judgment.

Looking back on it, he was right -- not because he wanted to give the police a pass, but because he wanted to see and hear all the facts in the case before making a decision as to guilt or innocence.

Needless to say, I'm thinking quite a bit about this right now -- after the acquittal in the shooting of Sean Bell.

I won't rehash the case too deeply; you likely know the details: Bell was shot outside a strip club in Queens, New York on November 25th of 2006; plainclothes cops fired 50 rounds at his car, killing him and wounding his two passengers. At the time, even Mayor Mike Bloomberg said it sounded like excessive force was used -- but today, a judge has ruled otherwise. To those in the black community, it feels like another stunning betrayal -- a case of killers in blue blithely executing a black man then escaping punishment, proving once again that police are above the very laws they purport to uphold. Although there's calm in the streets at the moment, the usual instigators -- and by that, I mean Al Sharpton -- will most certainly soon be forcing their indignant faces in front of any camera they can find, decrying the failure of the system and the insignificance of a black life in the eyes of the law. To some extent, they'll be correct, regardless of the true, self-serving agendas behind their personal proclamations -- but I can't help thinking that, as with Rodney King, we don't know all the facts in the case other than the most incendiary of them: that 50 bullets were fired at Bell. Admittedly, that alone is enough to make me seriously question the validity of the shoot, but it's not enough to convict on its own. More evidence is needed, and I would have to hope that, before issuing his verdict, the judge saw and considered the facts that the public either wasn't aware of or refused to take into account.

Were the cops who gunned down Sean Bell truly guilty of exercising unnecessarily brutal force? Are police in general expected to meet only a paltry standard when it comes to taking deadly action?

It may seem so at this point, after all we've seen.

But that doesn't necessarily make it so.

Suck It, Monkeys!*

I've said this before, but it bears repeating: The irony here is that Florida manages to disprove both the Theory of Evolution and Intelligent Design at the same time.

(Gainesville Sun: Florida Senate Passes Bill Challenging Evolution)

(*A little shout-out to anyone who saw last night's episode of 30 Rock.)

Listening Post: Devil's Horns Edition

It's Friday and, as Pat Boone once infamously said, I'm in a metal mood -- so let's bust out a couple of truly unexpected pleasures.

First up, I'll make a confession: I'm a die-hard Motley Crue fan. Say what you will about them, the Crue pretty much are rock 'n roll. They've been through it all: Spectacular fucking albums (Dr. Feelgood), crap albums (Theater of Pain), debaucherous excess, alcoholism, drug overdoses, celebrity wives, break-ups, lineup changes and side projects -- they've even managed to survive Vince Neil's seemingly unstoppable trek down the road to has-been oblivion as part of VH-1's insipid "Celebreality."

Motley Crue's spent almost three decades enduring all of this and more, and yet they're still a damn good band. In fact, all that hard living has given them the kind of grizzled look and feel that they were always going for as kids, but what now -- in middle-age -- seems unforced and realistically bad-ass.

Their new single sounds, at times, quite a bit like Shout at the Devil. And even though it treads a lot of familiar territory (both for the Crue and for metal in general), it's easily the best thing they've released in about 15 years.

Here's Saints of Los Angeles.



Next up, a decent band that probably wouldn't raise too many eyebrows were it not for their lead singer. For some reason, no one seems to know about these guys and just who the powerful voice is behind them. Suffice to say, as vanity projects go -- this one's an absolute shocker.

If you don't know who Wicked Wisdom are, watch the video -- and if you still haven't figured out who the woman at the mic is by the end, click the comment page to find out.

This is Bleed All Over Me.

Kids Incorporated

David Archuleta's going to win American Idol -- you may as well get that through your head right now.

It doesn't matter that he's a short, somewhat frumpy kid who always looks like he just got his ass kicked for his lunch money at recess, or that his willowy voice conveys all the passion and soul of Muzak, or that he actually admitted on national television -- without even a hint of irony -- that John Farnham is one of his favorite artists, or that Michael Jackson is already trying to figure out a way to get his smooth young body to Neverland. None of it makes any difference, because Archuleta has the one thing that matters -- tragically, the only thing that matters these days: The unwavering worship of every 13-year-old girl in America.

The 'tweens are legion, they are powerful, and they will see to it that David Archuleta is crowned boy king of the pop culture universe. In a couple of months, they'll have his face plastered everywhere you look -- and only the little girls themselves, and maybe NAMBLA, will have reason to rejoice over it.

But here's the thing: It doesn't have to be like this.

Never has there been a seeming eventuality -- in this case, a cultural zeitgeist -- that was easier to stave off.

All adults have to do, is take back the world from their kids.

Don't pretend that you don't know what I'm talking about, because it's become impossible to ignore: A generation of parents who spoil their children rotten -- hubristically buying into the notion that their specific spawn is somehow special and deserving of society's deference -- combined with the technology that gives every computer or text savvy kid a voice, whether he or she deserves one or not, has conspired to hijack a good portion of what we see and hear. It's a Wiki world, one in which a vocal majority can literally rewrite the rules and twist reality to suit its needs, and right now, the 'tweens are the most vocal -- and what they need, apparently, are crappy, overproduced, Disneyfied Stepford Teens to scream for and sing along to.

This is why Hannah Montana and the Jonas Brothers are all but inescapable right now -- and why David Archuleta is next.

Last night on American Idol, that palisade of democratic instant gratification, Carly Smithson got the hook, while utterly forgettable, high-all-the-time retard Jason Castro lived to annoy another day. The reason Smithson was sent packing, particularly as opposed to Castro, is obvious: she had nothing to offer the wild-eyed 'tween girl demographic. Without at least a portion of this fan base, no one on Idol stands a chance these days. Talent doesn't matter, nor does personality; all that really counts is the innate ability to give America's cell phone armed rugrats something to either fantasize about or aspire to.

I've always had an issue with parents who allow their children to take over their lives, turning them into frazzled, Nickelodeon-watching, Wiggles-vs.-Zach & Cody-debating, shadows of their former selves -- the kind of people who once listened to The Clash and now have no issue with mortgaging the home to buy Mylie Cyrus tickets. It's one thing to let parenthood change you -- to rightly make your kids a priority; it's another thing to completely forfeit your identity and become nothing more than an extension of your child's tastes. In years past, this kind of sloughing off of the various predilections that make someone an adult didn't have the far-reaching effect that it does today; before the age of viral transmission, YouTubed kingmaking and iRule, prepubescents didn't really have the ability to inflict their will on the rest of us. But all that's changed now that text messaging and the internet have allowed for the creation of a hive mind -- and what's worse, one that's turned Generation-Y into one big conduit/amplifier for whatever's been cleverly marketed in its direction. It's no longer a kid grabbing Mommy's sleeve and screaming, "I want that!" It's a kid hooking into the Borg and joining with every other kid in the country, then voting and calling and posting and commenting and asserting power in every way possible until his or her request is no longer a request but a demand, and one that's been handily brought to fruition. In the chaos theory of popular culture, all it takes anymore is a few butterflies flapping their wings to start a tempest that becomes a juggernaut. The 'tweens decide what they want, the parents follow, the lapdog media that are always on the lookout for the Next Big Thing trumpet it, and before you know it, it's unavoidable -- on every TV and radio and in every magazine and department store across the nation.

The easiest way to change this would be to simply stop allowing them to have such a deafening voice. Believe it or not, adults are still in charge; they can say "no" once in awhile, or take away the cell phones attached to their children's ears, or pry their hands away from the computer keyboards. The bottom line is that what a bunch of little Veruca Salts want, particularly when it comes to entertainment, is what the rest of us are getting stuck with -- and I didn't grow older, endure bad relationships, a drug addiction and various harsh disappointments, and now pay an exorbitant rent and $4.15-a-gallon for gas so that I can have David Fucking Archuleta rammed down my throat by some lovestruck 12-year-old.

To twist a lyric from The Doors -- they've got the numbers, but we've got the guns.

Or in this case, the plugs.

Pull 'em.

Returning to the Scene of the Crime

A kind reader sent me this tidbit.

I don't even know what to say about it; I'm honestly speechless.

Please, please, please -- would somebody hit a homerun of irony and just shoot this fucker in the face?

(WDJB: Seller of Gun Used in Virginia Tech Shooting Goes to Campus to Promote Concealed Weapons)

Related:

(Blow Back/6.21.07)

(And All That Could Have Been/4.19.07)

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 work at the office of a Republican congressman from Alabama: 6,899

If you happen to be Shaft's secretary: -5,000

(Pick a Fro)

Gentlemen, Behold!

There's seriously nothing about this video that isn't awesome.

Post #1000

Reading is Fundamental

Just a reminder -- and for the record, I have to remind myself to post reminders like this: My full-length memoir, Dead Star Twilight, is available for purchase and download by clicking the link in the upper right hand corner of this page.

So far, the response to it has been spectacular and I've sold a hell of a lot more copies in two weeks than I ever expected to.

To those who've picked it up, I can't thank you enough.

To those who haven't yet -- are you waiting for me to add more sex and drugs or something? Because I'm not sure that's possible. (How's that for a tease?)

Read the excerpts here:

(You Can't Go Home Again/4.5.08)

(Ship of Fools/2.22.08)

(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)

Live Through This

Two years ago this week, I underwent surgery to have a tumor the size of a pinball removed from my brain.

The fact that I'm even able to type these words is nothing short of a miracle, to say nothing of the admittedly miniscule thought process necessary to pull them out of my ass in the first place.

You'll forgive me if I take this opporunity to republish the columns I wrote a year or so ago dealing with the time leading up to and immediately following my operation.

Outside my window right now, it's a beautiful day.

It's good to be alive.

Where Is My Mind? (Part 1) -- 10.12.06

Where Is My Mind? (Part 2) -- 12.26.06

Listening Post

Turn your speakers up to 11.

This is one of the fucking coolest songs ever.

Monster Magnet's Negasonic Teenage Warhead..

Surrender, Integrity

"Theater is Life. Film is Art. Television is Furniture."

-- Unknown

I don't watch much CNN anymore, or TV news in general for that matter.

I figure since there's no longer a steady paycheck to provide the requisite level of incentive, there's really no need to subject myself to most of the horseshit the networks try to pass off as legitimate news these days. The average human digestive tract can handle only so many breathless reports on the latest missing blonde girl or bombastic warnings about the threat posed by plastic water bottles before it goes all Lovecraft and starts trying to force itself out of any orifice it can find. I'd like to believe that joining the ranks of those who play 24/7 watchdog to the news industry -- the ones attempting to Quixotically stand against the tide of daily abuses -- will make some kind of difference, but I'm just not sure that's the case. As much as I want to feel otherwise, I don't think organizations like Media Matters really, well, matter. They're fighting the good fight and bringing the power of new media to bear against a previously unchecked leviathan, sure -- but there are times when I can't help but believe they're stoically trying to empty Lake Michigan with a spoon.

I realize that this kind of thinking stands in sharp contrast to some of the antagonistically insurgent, all-or-nothing statements I've made in the past. But when a discordian convergence of the magnitude that we've witnessed in the past few days occurs, it makes me just want to throw in the towel, take my Paxil and let the chemically-induced somnambulance wash over me like a warm bath.

It started last week, at the annual National Association of Broadcasters convention in Las Vegas. The event's keynote speaker was none other than actor, activist and slightly pompous ass Tim Robbins; he took the opportunity to verbally scold America's broadcasting community while simultaneously calling upon it to remember its responsibility to the public, reinvest itself in quality product and turn away from celeb-fellating, political ass-kissing, ratings-driven nonsense. Needless to say, Robbins received a warm reception and a staunch chorus of amusingly indignant "hear hears" from the crowd, which then dispersed to head back to the bar, then to the casino, then to the panel discussion entitled "Tits and TV: How To Make a Freezing Cold Air Conditioner Work for You," then to the Cheetah lounge.

Given the amount of lip service paid to Robbins's noble but perfunctory attempt at forcing change from within the industry, you'd figure on at least a minor grace period of self-reflection and soul-searching from America's broadcasters before completely disregarding any half-drunk vows made in Vegas to clean up their act.

You'd of course be wrong.

Sure, executives say they want to see integrity and honor restored to television and radio -- particularly when it comes to news. But here's the thing: Each person sincerely believes it's the other guy who's to blame. Finding a news or programming manager who'll say that he or she is even partially responsible for inundating the airwaves with crap is like trying to nail down Warren Jeffs on Father's Day.

These people are like addicts: They'll never admit they've got a problem.

Which is why, just one week after Robbins's verbal beat-down and the obligatory head-hanging and hand-wringing it produced, two of America's most powerful television networks are still doing what they do best -- and that's whatever the hell they have to do to get ratings, regardless of how shameful an abandonment of their responsibility to respectable broadcasting.

Last night, NBC's strangely successful game show Deal or No Deal was visited -- via a satellite image displayed on a huge, somewhat Orwellian monitor -- by George W. Bush. The president was on hand to lend his support to a contestant on the show -- a captain in the U.S. Army who pulled three tours of duty in Iraq and whom dingbat host Howie Mandel referred to as "the ultimate American." (As Mandel is Canadian, who knows whether he was being slightly facetious.) The surreal image of a giant George W. Bush head doing its self-deprecating "aw shucks" routine while wishing the best to a man who's spent the past few years dodging bullets and picking sand out of his ass in the name of a war Bush himself started was almost too much to take. All that was missing was a final Vaudevillian mug to the camera and a hearty "Sock it to me!" Despite Bush's on-air joke that he's "happy to be anywhere with good ratings," however, the numbers for last night's Deal or No Deal actually mirrored Bush's own anemic approval rating these days: The show matched its lowest Monday night numbers ever.

Incidentally, the president's support didn't do much good for the contestant either: The Iraq war vet went from banking around $140,000 to just a little over $25,000 before finally recouping some of his losses -- which makes this just the latest instance of a U.S. soldier being fucked by George Bush.

While there's technically nothing wrong with giving the president a forum on a harmless game show, NBC has spent so much time over the past several years pandering to this administration -- going along with it in the name of condescendingly appealing to the GOP's cheerleading base -- that you'd think by now the network would want to draw a very distinct line between itself and the unmitigated controversy that is the Bush White House. This would be particularly important given the criticism NBC News -- and to be fair, most other news organizations -- was forced to endure from those who say the network gave Bush and company a pass during the lead up to the Iraq war.

But, once again, network executives aren't interested in legitimacy in programming or news -- they're interested in being able to promote appointment television. In their eyes, that's what Bush's appearance on Deal or No Deal was (although the audience apparently knew better and believed otherwise).

Likewise, NBC saw nothing untoward about handing off an entire hour of Today to first lady Laura Bush and her twin daughters this morning. It may seem innocuous at first glance, but really, think about it: The wife and daughters of a low-rated and staggeringly divisive president, taking the reins of a network news show -- even one as toothless as Today.

It's a jaw-dropping violation of the fragile but sacrosanct Rubicon dividing the government from those whose job it is to police and maintain an adversarial relationship with it.

Murrow would've quit before allowing something like that to happen on his watch.

But if you think that's bad, it's a journalistic parking ticket compared to what CNN just did: It hired former White House Press Secretary and Fox News shill Tony Snow. I've had plenty to say recently about CNN's comically inept attempts at proving to the Fox Fans that it can be trusted with their viewership; the network has basically bent over backward and spun itself into one ethical pretzel after another trying to gain momentum against FNC's ratings juggernaut -- abandoning every principle it swore to uphold at its inception and napalming the very last vestiges of its journalistic credibility in the precious name of ad revenue. CNN has been as guilty as anyone of not holding the government accountable for its offenses over the past several years; although not the blatant mouthpiece for the White House that Fox has been, CNN in some ways abandoned its post in an even more egregious manner. No one with a brain ever expected Fox to tell the truth, not with Republican interests at stake; CNN had a responsibility to be the necessary beacon in the night -- to balance out the bullshit -- and instead, it drank the Kool-aid, hopped on the bus and did exactly what it was told to do by people like, irony of ironies, Tony Snow. In some ways, it only makes sense that the circle is now complete and the chicken hawk has come home to roost -- but it damn sure doesn't make it right.

CNN, in its relentless pursuit of Fox's audience, has just closed the White House's deal to buy the media outlet that should've been standing against it all along.

It really is enough to make even the staunchest defender of journalistic independence give up once and for all.

Malcolm X once famously told a crowd, "You've been hoodwinked; you've been had; you've been took; you've been led astray; you've been bamboozled."

Turns out, he was only half-right -- because when it comes to today's broadcast media, you're still being hoodwinked, took, led astray and bamboozled.

And I'm not sure there's a damn thing that can be done about it anymore.

Listening Post