Talking Points

A quick reminder that tomorrow morning, July 1st, I'll be on XM Satellite Radio's "Morning Briefing" show with Scott Walterman.

I should be on around 7:20am and you can find the show on XM's POTUS channel, 130.

As with Sirius, if you don't have an XM subscription, you can listen online.

You can also build a bomb out of old playing cards, but that's not really important.

Listening Post

May as well start off the July 4th workweek with a little fireworks.

Directed by Spike Jonze and banned from daytime MTV in the mid-90s -- due mostly to the comically absurd anti-Beavis and Butthead hysteria grabbing Skittish America by the throat at the time -- here's the now-legendary video for Wax's California.

For Madison

I haven't held much back when it comes to what I discuss on this site. I've always been willing to get into a host of varied topics, no matter how strongly I may feel about a certain subject or how personal a particular matter. As far as I'm concerned, almost nothing is off-limits around here.

And yet one thing has been since the very beginning.

Highly observant readers, ones who've trolled the comment sections either joining in the various debates or just playing the part of the collective voyeur, might have noticed that on a select few occasions, I've dropped a hint or two about the fact that I'm a father. I don't mean a father to my and Jayne's unborn child, Inara -- although I am indeed that. I mean a father to another young girl -- my firstborn.

Her name is Madison, and she turns 16 years old today.

I've avoided ever bringing her into the conversation here -- she stands as the only thing I've consciously avoided talking about -- simply because I never wanted the past indiscretions I've chronicled to shine a negative light on her. I always felt as if she were too good for all this nonsense and I refused to sully her by bringing her down to what some might see as just another character from my checkered past -- one more person I wrote about consistently.

Maddi was always better than that. She always deserved more.

But while I tried to keep her out of the "public eye" -- and please take that with the grain of salt with which it's being given -- I might have also inadvertently made it seem as if she wasn't worthy of mention. And let me tell you -- nothing could be further from the truth.

"The truth" is that Madison is quite possibly the smartest, savviest, coolest, most indescribably beautiful young woman I've ever known. To be able to call her my daughter -- to know that I somehow had a role in creating her -- humbles me beyond deepest humility. It leaves me groveling at how utterly undeserving I am to have been blessed -- yes, I'll use that word -- with such an incredible child. I won't go into detail about my relationship with my now 16-year-old daughter -- one that's had its ups and downs, its familiarity and its distance; one which has grown in strength considerably as of late -- but I will say that of the things I'm most proud of in this world, nothing even comes close to how honored I feel to be able to call myself Madison's father.

I love her so very much.

Happy Birthday, Maddi.

Dope Fiend Theater

In the name of cheap weekend programming, we're starting another new franchise around these parts beginning tonight. (Deus Ex Malcontent assumes no responsibility for any permanent psychological damage that might be caused by the following.)

I'm not even going to bother labeling the next couple of videos; just remember to swallow that blotter acid about 20 minutes after first putting it on your tongue, then sit back and watch the weirdness.

Voting Ourselves Off the Island

Just a quick housekeeping note, literally: It's moving day for Jayne, Mr. Jayne, and the kid that just won't stop growing in Jayne's belly. We clear out of our Manhattan apartment later this afternoon and head off to our new townhouse in Astoria.

In other words, I'll likely be out of the loop until tomorrow night or Monday morning, but I've already set up a little something special to automatically post later tonight. Feel free to come back and take a look after 10pm eastern -- if you dare.

Saturday Morning Cartoons

There are so many quotable lines in this six-and-a-half minute clip that I wouldn't know where to begin.

From 1954, here's Foghorn Leghorn in Bob McKimson's Little Boy Boo.

Foreign Affairs

Just a week after a startlingly candid appearance on The Daily Show -- one in which she thrashed the U.S. news media for its anemic coverage of the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan -- Lara Logan has been transferred from the CBS News Baghdad bureau to Washington, D.C. In addition to the reassignment, Logan's getting a new title: Chief Foreign Affairs Correspondent. (If moving an international reporter stateside and giving her a confusingly contradictory title makes any sense at all to you, congratulations, you can be an upper-level news manager.) Now it's being reported, however, that Logan -- who's admittedly as beautiful as she is bright -- was recently involved in a somewhat contentious love-triangle while stationed Baghdad. Supposedly, Logan was sleeping not only with a married U.S. State Department contractor, but also with CNN war correspondent Michael Ware (whom I've met a couple of times and share several very good mutual friends with). While Logan's sex life is honestly none of my or anyone else's business, so long as it doesn't affect her ability to do her job, reading about the details of this story brought back quite a few memories for me. In March of last year, I wrote a piece that, for the first time since starting this little experiment of mine, got into some detail about my relationship with my ex-wife -- the woman whom readers of Dead Star Twilight know as Kara. The overall point I was trying to make was that it takes a certain type of person to work in a war zone -- and to actually be drawn to work there. My ex-wife was this type of person. I'd imagine Lara Logan is as well. Here now, is that column from last year: "Bulletproof Hearts."

I don't function very well without my wife. Though I have no doubt that many would view this as an opportunity to lecture me on the gathering storm of inevitable co-dependency, I actually believe it to be somewhat quaint and, in my case, a damn nice about-face from a past that's overflowing with positively atrocious behavior. Unfortunately, this simple truth means that when Jayne and I are apart for extended periods, I find myself oddly disoriented, unsure of what the hell to do or how to do it.

Case in point: she's gone right now -- away at a conference for two days -- and I've probably opened and closed the refigerator door ten times without actually removing anything. I just stand there vacantly staring into it as if expecting the margarine to stand up and begin explaining string-theory to me. So far at least, it's failed to do so and thus the mysteries of the universe remain just that -- mysteries.

I admit to having the monotony broken a short time ago by one of the more maddening quirks of the apartment in which my wife and I pay an unforgivable amount of money to live. Our intercom system -- the one which lets us know that any manner of small, non-English-speaking persons has arrived with our food delivery and would now very much like to be buzzed in -- creates a sound that rivals a jackhammer in volume and ability to irritate. This would be little more than a minor inconvenience were it not for the fact that the button tends to get stuck, which means that if we can't explain the situation to the person six floors below -- this is where the whole non-English-speaking thing becomes a pitfall -- one of us will be forced to go downstairs and unstick the button while simultaneously stifling the urge to beat the utterly confused bastard at the door into a coma.

It's even more annoying when someone walks by and hits the button just for the hell of it.

Having not ordered food -- I'm still determined to allow my refrigerator the time it apparently needs to show some initiative and suggest something worthwhile -- I assumed that one of these phantoms was the culprit when the jackhammer unexpectedly went off in my apartment a half-hour or so ago. As is typical, I swore loudly, then put on my shoes and took the elevator down to the street level. When I threw the front door open in a rage, standing there, a few feet from it, was a small Asian man with a messenger bag slung over his shoulder.

"Did you hit 6C?" I barked.

He returned a look that I recognized; it was the same one my dog used to make when he had recently come to the conclusion that my couch didn't meet the required level of canine fecal matter necessary to be considered truly tasteful.

"No -- no," he returned, looking anywhere but directly at me.

I huffed, fixed the button and went back upstairs.

A few minutes later, I was making yet another trek to the refrigerator when I noticed a white leaflet on the floor directly in front of my apartment door. It was then of course that the full breadth of Fu Manchu's nefarious plot became clear: He had basically just punched a bunch of buttons until somebody finally let him in, then he littered our building with restaurant fliers.

Normally, this would've been thorougly infuriating, and it was -- until I picked up the flier and took a look at it.

It was relatively unassuming -- the latest in an infinitude of Chinese restaurant menus my wife and I find under our door. This one however was inscribed in bold letters with what has to be the best blurb in the history of promotion -- an endorsement so impressive that it no doubt has the Zagat and Michelin people contemplating a change of career.

It read simply:

"The best Chinese food I never try it before!"
-- Said by many customer

And with that, all was forgiven.

After a quick internal debate over whether or not my mastery of the English language was strong enough to become one of the restaurant's "many customer," I threw the menu away and went back to the refrigerator. Still no string-theory.

I'm loathe to admit it, but years ago I likely would've looked upon this sort of reprieve from a current relationship as an opportunity to at most fool around with someone other than my partner, or at the very least masturbate in every room of the house. The former is out of the question these days because I'm very much in love with my wife, the latter simply because, A) my sex drive isn't quite what it used to be since undergoing brain surgery last year, and B) I live in New York City, which means that there's only one room in my residence to speak of; any attempt to vary my masturbatory patterns would be sorely lacking in creativity. Instead, I willingly turn my attention to a combination of writing and mental preparation for tonight's season finale of Battlestar Galactica.

Oh yeah, and watching Blood Diamond again.

I say again because my wife and I curled up on the couch last night and watched it together, each of us enjoying the movie quite a bit, which is what led me to make the rare commitment to a second viewing. In addition to being a disturbing and wholly necessary tutorial on both the reality of the diamond trade and the brutality of the constant political upheaval in Africa -- upheaval which goes largely ignored by many here in the states -- it boasts excellent performances by its lead actors. Leonardo DiCaprio and Djimon Hounsou are each phenomenal and unquestioningly deserved their respective Oscar nominations; Jennifer Connolly manages to capture the enigmatic quality -- equal parts seductive and repellent -- that drives someone to willingly and consistently travel to the worst places on the planet and risk his or her life in pursuit of the news.

I'm very familiar with this quality -- I've had plenty of personal experience with it -- and yet it remains "enigmatic" simply because I have yet to fully understand it, and I'm not alone in this nescience. I know this however: It's very easy to fall in love with; it is almost impossible to live with.

A couple of weeks back, I left the insular quiet of the Upper East Side and hopped a cab down to, quite literally, my neighborhood's polar opposite -- the Lower East Side. I had been invited to a small party by one of my co-workers and relished the chance to spend a little time engaging in a ritual which long ago became foreign to me: drinking and complaining about the business. Before I even left my apartment, the party already had the distinction of being the first social event I'd be attending in years without Jayne on my arm (she wasn't feeling great and had decided to sit this one out). When I arrived, I quickly realized that the gathering was unusual for an entirely different reason: In attendance were reporters and producers from several networks' Baghdad crews, all of whom were not only familiar with my ex-wife, but had shared the kind of indescribable, singular intimacy with her that can only come from dodging mortar rounds together for extended periods of time.

They knew everything there was to know about her -- which meant that they almost surely knew everything there was to know about me.

A quick history lesson: My ex-wife and I were the worst couple imaginable.

Each of us was insanely passionate, notoriously short-fused and brutally caustic. Like many couples whose individual partners share combustive characteristics, we created a volatile mixture which simmered for quite some time before finally exploding altogether. It's only in hindsight however that our most indomitable shared trait becomes clear: Neither of us was willing to accept that we were exactly the same; neither wanted to admit to having the same negative personality traits as the other -- it was easier to just blame each other and be done with it. I needed an escape, so I did drugs; she had looked for an escape from the beginning, so she subconsciously pushed me away. I was selfish and irresponsible -- constantly looking for something more, while trying to keep the status quo; she insisted on keeping the status quo solely out of obligation, while constantly craving something more. We both loved strongly, but neither of us would truly commit. We were each flawed in ways neither was willing to discuss or possibly even admit to. Our relationship never should've lasted more than a month at the most. We were foolish for trying to turn it into a lifetime.

The most common word I've heard used to describe my ex-wife is "rigid." She's indeed tough-as-nails -- exuding a masculine sexuality and drive that makes her enticing in a way that seems almost supernatural. It's likely always made her an object of infatuation to those who perceive the idea of taming her to be the ultimate challenge. I have no doubt that it's the progenitor of this kind of rough-and-tumble bravado which drove her to take a job as a network field producer. What that progenitor is, I now have my suspicions.

Back to the party -- it was about an hour after my arrival that it became clear to the Baghdad people just who I was.

The reaction was, well --

"YOU'RE CHEZ?" one woman practically screamed, with equal parts shock and bemusement -- immediately calling the others over so that they too could get a look at the circus freak.

I just smiled and nodded in resignation.

Yes, yes -- it's me -- THAT GUY. The asshole -- in the flesh. Thanks for coming. Make sure you tip your bartenders and waitresses on the way out.

I was almost sorry I didn't have a pedestal handy.

Understand, it's one thing to have an unseemly past -- one in which you regret nearly everything you did and didn't do; it's something else entirely to meet people for the first time who already know every repugnant detail -- every rotten secret -- from that past. Disconcerting doesn't even begin to cover it.

For the next half-hour or so, I did my best to keep the conversation upbeat -- despite the knowledge that I had already been judged and convicted and now stood before my ex-wife's co-workers as exposed and vulnerable as the day I was born. I spoke highly of my former love; I spoke truthfully about my own mistakes -- my search for a measure of redemption -- and my recent successes and newfound happiness. I spoke honestly about my love for Jayne and the strength of our relationship; I smiled a lot and did my best to take the whole uncomfortable situation in stride.

I learned that my ex-wife is now dating a photographer who works with her. In fact, one noticeably strange moment came when someone actually suggested calling my ex, right there and then, and putting me on the phone. Another woman quickly dismissed the idea, intimating that it would upset the current boyfriend. Admittedly, the possibility that I might be perceived as a threat was something that I turned over in my mind for a few minutes, curious as to whether my memory existed as some sort of specter in my ex's life -- confused at this thought, given her abrupt and unequivocal exit from our relationship.

After awhile, the garrulity turned toward another topic and I was left to drink my beer in relative peace. Thankfully, my inquisition at the hands of the Babes of Baghdad was quickly followed by a quiet conversation with the host of the party -- my co-worker. She's a cool, sweet, funny, smart and attractive twenty-five-year-old with whom I've forged an odd little bond recently. This was initially due to the fact that she'd been unlucky enough to fall hard for an overseas field producer herself, and was facing the same obstacles and difficulties I had once faced in dealing with that particular personality type.

I offered an opinion or two -- refusing to lecture -- confident in the belief that she's doing just fine figuring it out on her own.

Discussing it with her, however, had a surprising affect on me: It helped me to at least better understand what years ago was so torturously incomprehensible. I listened to what was happening to my friend and I recognized the behavior immediately. The man she cared about sought solace in her arms, but was never fully there. His passion was alluring and consuming -- but also fleeting; despite the trappings of adulthood -- particularly the dangerous, important job -- he was, in reality, little more than a selfish child.

It all finally added up.

"Baghdad" isn't merely a place -- not for people like the man who has my friend's heart; not for people like the woman who once had mine. It's an idea. It's where you run to when bullets and bombs don't terrify you but commitment to another human being and the very thought of an ordinary life does. It's where everything is transient, nothing lasts, and caprice is not only accepted but rewarded -- rationalized as an unavoidable by-product of the job -- in actuality, the very reason the job held such appeal in the first place.

The progenitor I mentioned earlier -- the basis for her bravado?

Fear.

Fear of never being able to lead a quiet life; fear of becoming restless and unwittingly hurting someone who loves you; fear of failure. The job becomes the perfect excuse for never having to take on that most daunting yet rewarding of life's responsibilities: the care of a human heart.

About two-thirds of the way through Blood Diamond, Leonardo DiCaprio's character asks Jennifer Connolly's why she does what she does -- why she puts herself in the line of fire time and time again. He asks if she's a thrill-seeker; she responds, "Three out of four ex-boyfriends say that I'm not happy unless my life is in a constant state of crisis."

At least one ex-husband understands, and he's happy not to be a part of it anymore.

He's grateful though for the learning experience -- and even more grateful for what's come into his life since.

Talkin' 'Bout a Revolution

Just wanted to say a quick thanks to everyone who showed up last night for Gelf Magazine's "Non-Motivational Speaker" series event here in New York City.

Hopefully, Robert Lanham (of FREEWilliamsburg.com), Moe Tkacik (of Jezebel.com) and myself didn't make your brain hurt too badly.

Either way, it was great meeting everyone who stopped by and a good time all the way around.

Up Next:

On Tuesday, July 1st, I'll be on XM Satellite Radio's "Morning Briefing" show with Scott Walterman. I should be on around 7:20am and you can find the show on XM's POTUS channel, 130. As with Sirius, if you don't have an XM subscription, you can listen online.

Listening Post

This is seriously one of the best covers I think anyone's ever done. It just floored me the first time I heard it.

Here's Jose Gonzalez, turning Massive Attack's Teardrop from dreamy into powerful and passionate.

And Now, a Word from "Jon Klein"

I'm filing this one under "For Entertainment Purposes Only," simply because there's no way to verify the authenticity of what you're about to read -- and I tend to doubt that the real Jon Klein, even when you consider his purported level of arrogance, would be balls-out stupid enough to publicly comment on this site.

That said though, I received a response to yesterday's short post on personal blogging by members of larger media outlets that reads as follows:

From: Your Former Boss

Chez, I've had enough of it. When you came to work for us, you implicitly made a pact to give your time and your skills to us. We paid you a salary, you give us your skills. We didn't need skills in the bedroom or skills in the kitchen or any of that; that's the stuff for your off time. Your production skills were what we paid for, and that includes your thoughts on media, your writing talent and all the rest.

Frankly, while working for us I don't believe you should be writing anything without permission. Not a novel about space aliens infesting a Mormon commune or a book of your favorite family recipes.

We, and many other business besides, pay good money for our workers and provide benefits and for that we expect...no, demand...loyalty.

You broke that trust, and that is why you are currently surviving on the benefits of unemployment insurance. Be glad we let you get that without challenging your right to it. After all, you broke trust. You broke your implied word that came with being our employee. In short, your termination was well deserved and if I had my way, you'd be paying us back for every hour you spent work on this blog while working at CNN.

Sincerely,
Jon Klein

For those lucky enough to have no idea who this person claims to be, Jon Klein is the president of CNN/U.S. and was, in fact, my "boss" during a substantial portion of my time at CNN. I've been told by several people since being fired from the network that Klein -- the real Klein -- actually is strangely Queegian enough to troll the internet looking for negative press about him and the little ethically-challenged fiefdom that he's built on the once-hallowed ground on which CNN sits. But once again, I just can't believe that he'd let his ego get the best of him and make the entirely ill-advised decision to engage in a public war of words with, well, a blogger (although, we've witnessed a lot of very bad, ego-driven ideas involving television types played out in public lately; take, for instance, the nightly fusillade between Keith Olbermann and Bill O'Reilly, bringing the vast resources of NBC and News Corp., respectively, to bear against each other in what's essentially a playground brawl). For what it's worth, even my own sense of self-importance isn't weighty enough to make me willing to believe that I'm important enough of an issue for CNN to have drawn its president out of his office and into a pissing match.

However, the comment does sound quite a bit like Klein: it's highly articulate, avoids going completely off the rails at any point, and is full to the brim with hubris. And the only thing I can say for sure is that it was written by neither myself nor someone I know.

So, just for the hell of it, I'll respond to this mystery person:

From: Your Former Employee

Mr. Klein,

I'm going to operate as if the comment recently made on my site, Deus Ex Malcontent, really is from you. I admit that I do this more for myself than for the benefit of you or even my readers, as I'd love nothing more than to finally address you "face to face."

The truth, sir, is that since your appointment to the position of president of CNN/U.S. in late 2004, you have consistently betrayed the principles and ethics upon which the network was originally founded -- the standards the public relies on from an organization such as CNN. You've done this by abandoning your background in real journalism, conveniently turning up your nose at it in favor of assuming the role of a highly-paid corporate hack whose sole interest is a twofold goal: assuring the mightiest stream of revenue possible for the Time Warner shareholders through the garnering of ratings by any means necessary and, in turn, ensuring that his own job is never in danger. This kind of end may certainly be a practical one in this age of news-for-profit, but unfortunately the tactics required to meet it -- the lengths you must be willing to go to in order to grab the ratings which pull in the money -- often run wholly anathema to the canons of honest, respectable journalism. Put simply, creating political conflict where this is none and inflating the conflict that already exists for the sake of generating viewer interest is reprehensible; allowing demagogic blowhards like Lou Dobbs and Nancy Grace, and Vaudevillian buffoons like Glenn Beck, to even walk the halls of CNN is a startling forfeiture of credibility; fostering an environment in which managers find it acceptable to make inexplicable comments like, "What can we do to not lead with Iraq?" is almost beyond belief; ruining what should, by all accounts, be the gold standard of U.S. televisions news, CNN, is absolutely unforgivable, sir. Unforgivable.

I refuse to once again list the failings of you and your organization as of late -- failings which are, in no uncertain terms, so absolute from a journalistic perspective as to be mind-boggling. I refuse because I've spent the past four months spelling them out ad nauseam for anyone and everyone to see. CNN/U.S. may indeed be making money hand-over-fist for its keepers at Time Warner, and this fact may indeed be all that really matters in your eyes -- but this in no way justifies the depths to which you've allowed the network to sink in pursuit of these vast profits.

It's about more than money -- more than the razzle-dazzle, and the shock value, and the over-the-top celebrity-fellating-and-generating ethos. It's about journalism. It's about bringing truth to power and, dare I say it, responsibility. And it's these principles that you've sacrificed time and time again, Mr. Klein. And though I have no doubt that you'll dismiss this criticism, as you tend to do to any and all outrage aimed in the direction of you and the institution you've created/destroyed, ask yourself this some time: "If the person currently castigating me through Deus Ex Malcontent and The Huffington Post is so wrong, so completely off-base in his reasoning, why are not one or two, but three of my senior managers in constant e-mail contact with him, agreeing with his arguments and feeding him inside information?" For the record, I'm not referring to a few disgruntled "bottom-feeders" within your organization; I'm talking about managers whom you think highly enough of to enlist them to represent CNN/U.S. as panelists at this year's National Association of Broadcasters convention in Las Vegas.

Think about that, sir.

As for myself -- my admittedly insignificant little drama in the much larger and more important picture, and your supposed irritation with it -- I can only say this: You may have paid me, but you didn't own me. I worked for CNN, not the CIA. I gave my job 100% and have the sterling employee reviews to prove it, but what I did on my own time, and not as a representative of the views and opinions of you or anyone else at CNN, was mine and mine alone. I regret nothing, and if you honestly do believe that you and the entity you lord over should be afforded absolute control of those who draw a CNN paycheck, you really are as laughably megalomaniacal, not to mention paranoid, as your many detractors claim you to be. I'm not sure if even the real Jon Klein, at his most delirious, would be short-sighted enough to actually threaten me with the revocation of my unemployment benefits or insinuate that I could at some point be taken to court for my personal actions during my time under the employ of CNN, but if by the slightest chance it really is you spouting such draconian invective, all I can say is, in the words of the very president the media in general failed to take to task for so long: bring it on.

Go ahead, make me a martyr. Make me truly famous.

Make my voice deafening.

Sincerely,

Chez

Talking Points

One final reminder: Tonight I'll be taking part in Gelf Magazine's "Non-Motivational Speaker" series here in New York City.

As a prelude to that appearance -- at which I'll talk a little, answer some questions, and read from Dead Star Twilight -- Gelf Magazine has posted an interview with yours truly on its website.

Feel free to check it out, and remember that if you happen to be in New York tonight, by all means stop by and let me buy you a drink.

(Gelf Magazine: "Insolence is Bliss" by Adam Rosen/6.20.08)

Gelf Magazine's Non-Motivational Speaker Series
Happy Ending Lounge
302 Broome St.
(between Forsyth and Eldridge)
212-334-9676
Doors open at 7:30.

(More Information)

Goodbye Larry

Well, here's a shock.

Ferret-like Philadelphia news anchor Larry Mendte, one half of the long-running comedy team of Mendte and Lane, was canned Monday from his main anchor job at KYW, CBS 3. The move comes as the other half of the team -- cop-punching, bikini-pic mailing, foul-mouthed, hot-but-stupid ex-anchor Alycia Lane -- files a lawsuit against KYW and its CBS overlords, charging them with invading her privacy and trashing her, uh, good name. Mendte garners a hefty portion of Lane's substantial wrath; she claims he went through her private e-mails and leaked what he found to gossip columnists -- an accusation which brought the feds down hard on Mendte, as rifling through someone else's computer is a federal offense. Reportedly, keystroke-logging software was discovered on one of the CBS 3 computers, though whether the hard drive in question was Lane's or the software was put there by Mendte is unknown.


Mendte's sacking means that CBS 3 has fired its entire main anchor team over a period of six months.

Ladies and gentlemen, meet the people bringing you your local news.

(The Philadelphia Inquirer: CBS 3 Fires Mendte/8.24.08)

(Philly.com: Alycia Tells Her Side/6.20.08)

Listening Post

Two songs from one of my absolute favorite bands of all-time: Concrete Blonde.

First up, from their 1990 album Bloodletting, this is the gorgeous and haunting Caroline.



And from Concrete Blonde's 1989 album Free, here's God is a Bullet.

Survey Says...

I meant to get into this a couple of weeks back, when it first began making the rounds on the internet. Unfortunately for the author of a study on personal blogging and the media, bad timing prevailed and I felt like I had to shelve his story for a little while, as I had just spent a couple of days working on the piece detailing my return to the Time Warner Center four months after being fired by CNN (The Outsider/6.9.08) and wanted to leave it at the top of the main page for awhile.

I felt awful about doing this, given that my story was apparently the partial inspiration for his decision to contact 250 newspaper editors and ask the following question:

"Would you allow your staff writers, without prior approval, to blog during their free time after work as long as they don’t write about the beats they cover for your newspaper?"

What Simon Owens discovered -- besides the fact that most newspaper editors and publishers can't be bothered to respond to an e-mail if it comes from one of the unwashed masses, as only 39 people responded to him -- was that the issue of personal blogging for members of the so-called mainstream media is a startlingly divisive one.

"Twenty-two — 56% — said they wouldn’t mind if writers blogged on non-beat issues without obtaining permission. The remaining 17 — 44% — either required disclosure of the blog, issued caveats over what subjects couldn’t be covered, or had outright bans on having personal blogs at all."

For my part, I feel like everything I could possibly say about this subject has been said (which is one of the reasons I pushed this story back a couple of weeks; I had originally intended the Time Warner column to bookend my original piece on being fired by CNN and act as a sort of "final word" on the whole thing). But Owens put a good amount of effort -- well thought-out effort -- into gathering these figures, the results of which prove that a clear and specific policy on blogging is imperative in each and every media workplace these days in order to avoid the kind of situation I ran into. What Owens's actions themselves prove, however -- the very act of a blogger reaching out and undertaking a careful survey, then writing a column which pieces together the results -- proves a point that I've been attempting to hammer home for quite a while: true journalism is no longer only the dominion of the major media outlets. Simon Owens used his intellect and his computer to conduct a study which attempts to shed light on a important (and newsworthy) social debate. What's more, he didn't do it for a paycheck -- he did it because he just wanted to know.

It's that kind of curiosity that's the backbone of what a newsperson does every day, and it doesn't require sanction or validation from an official media organization to be considered journalism

(Bloggasm: 44% of Newspapers Wouldn't Allow Staff Writers to Blog During Free Time Without Prior Approval/6.9.08)

Resistance is Futile

To: Chez Pazienza, AKA "Deus Ex Malcontent"
From: General Malaise, Cmdr. DUNCECOM Allied Forces
Date: June 24th, 2008

Mr. Pazienza,

First, allow me to say that you have fought the good fight and, as such, have been an honorable opponent in the face of overwhelming odds. There is no condescension meant in the demand which I must now make, nor should any shame be taken by you regarding what, I believe, you now have no choice but to do. You've stood valiantly against our assaults for more than two years, weathered the daunting firepower of some of the strongly and most finely-crafted idiocy we could bombard you with: the Don Imus "scandal," Sex and the City mania, Ben Stein's "Intelligent Design" movie, anything Al Sharpton has had to say, Hannah Montana, NBC's "All American Summer" lineup. Once again, to your immense credit, you have withstood it all, and even fought back vigorously.

But you must now, this morning, concede that you have been beaten. It is time to put down your pen, take a step back from your keyboard, unplug your MacBook and surrender, if for no other reason than to prevent any further anguish to either side in this fierce battle.

Surely you understand -- after reading the recent article on CNN.com., originally posted on Oprah.com -- the hopelessness of resistance at this point. We hesitated for some time to commit to the nuclear option against you, but we feel that you left us no alternative but to publish the aforementioned article, entitled "Empathy Deficit Disorder: Do You Suffer From It?" and documenting, mostly through a series of testimonials from the dumbest women we could assemble, a completely new disorder that pop psychologists (in our employ) just pulled out of their asses on a whim. The forces of DUNCECOM were fully aware when we contracted the creation of this so-called "condition" the fact that it sounded a lot cooler and less threatening than sociopathy (think "Sociopathy-Lite, for Housewives!") and was essentially the same thing. We also understood that upon reading it, the inside of your brain, Mr. Pazienza, would detonate in a massive explosion that would kill millions of innocent brain cells; despite the awareness of such collateral damage, however, we once again felt that this drastic action had to be taken to force you to finally concede defeat.

Please know that this will only be the first strike in a larger campaign of atom-splitting stupidity against you and the dwindling few intelligent members of the general public, if you do not surrender immediately and unconditionally. We have several more nonsensical media-driven, Oprah-approved cultural and medical breakthroughs -- complete with guest shots on the Today show and best-selling self-help books -- waiting in the wings, all carefully engineered to produce the kind of physically painful chain-reaction of catalepsy in your brain that will render you completely unable to crawl out from under your covers and utterly terrified of the world beyond your home.

It doesn't have to be this way, but make no mistake, we will not hesitate to mentally crush you if we have to.

Just wait until we unleash the new season of VH-1's "Celebreality."

Believe me, you don't want to see Richard Grieco and Peter DeLuise in 43 Jump Street, or Wentz and Simpson: Swinging Celebs.

Please, do the right thing. You have no choice.

We await your reply.

-- General Malaise

To: General Malaise, Cmdr. DUNCECOM Allied Forces
From: Chez Pazienza, AKA "Deus Ex Malcontent"
Date: June 24th, 2008

General Malaise,

Fuck it. Meet me at the Starbucks on 75th and 1st (the one on the southeast corner) and bring the paperwork -- and a bottle of Effexor.

-- Chez

(CNN.com/Oprah.com: Empathy Deficit Disorder -- Do You Suffer from It?/6.18.08)

Sour Girl

There's an article in Salon.com this morning that asks "Did Maureen Dowd Go Too Far?"

First of all, and for the record, News Writing 101: Want people to read? Title your headline in the form of a question. It's literally the lowest-hanging fruit on the tree of cheap journalism tricks.

About the piece itself though, columnist Sarah Hepola lambastes the media's half-assed -- and by this point, wholly predictable -- attempt at ex post facto soul-searching in the wake of its allegedly unfair and sexist treatment of Hillary Clinton. Hepola argues that Maureen Dowd, in particular, is getting off too easy; she says that the New York Times columnist's occasionally scathing pieces targeting Clinton during her divisive run for the White House amounted to a form of crass sexism. (Don't try to figure it out; I gave it a shot and it only made my brain hurt.) But the author makes special note of Dowd's notorious wordplay.

"Over the top? Maureen Dowd? Tell me when she has ever been anything but. (And we haven't even discussed her truly offensive use of puns!)" she writes.

The punchline?

The column appears in Salon.com's new blog section aimed at female readers.

It's called "The Broadsheet."

(For a couple of really hilarious puns, by the way, a little further down on the Broadsheet you'll find a story about a 5'8", 300 pound model named Velvet D'Amour. The piece is called, appropriately, "Girl Crush," and at one point in it, D'Amour unleashes this unintentional zinger: "I've been called a whale at a swimming pool. I'm very confident in my body and I know that I'm not going to stop myself from getting exercise by virtue of someone putting me down. But I know that there are tons of women who would never go back to that swimming pool.")

"Death is Caused by Swallowing Small Amounts of Saliva Over a Long Period of Time"

When I was a kid, I spent quite a bit of time surreptitiously rifling through my uncle's record collection. He was heavily into Sly and the Family Stone, The Who and Fleetwood Mac, and my stealth missions to his turntable were always edifying -- making me feel like I was getting just a tiny taste of the music and culture I already appreciated and would soon come to love inside and out.

I stood in awe of the kind of stuff my uncle listened to.

But nothing prepared me for the first time I snuck off with his copy of George Carlin's 1974 album Toledo Window Box.

Honestly -- it was a revelation.

I'd never heard anything so clever, so brash, so sly, so acerbic -- or anyone so skillful at filtering his indignation through seemingly harmless wordplay, so absolutely goddamned funny. The only word I could come up with, even at the time, was "genius." I grew up worshipping at the altar of Carlin for years after that early indoctrination; he was everything I wanted to be, and remained that way throughout his lifetime -- right up until his death yesterday at the age of 71.

The irony that I can't find the words to describe my heartbreak, when he probably would've had no trouble doing so, isn't lost on me.

Just know this: Anyone who currently uses a public forum to comment on the general absurdity of life, and tries to be mildly entertaining doing it, owes a debt of gratitude to George Carlin -- one that can never be fully repaid.

He was one of my idols, and today the world feels like a less educated -- and infinitely less funny -- place without him.

Listening Post

True rock n' roll story: I was lucky enough to be in the audience the night that The Nymphs imploded live onstage.

For those unfamiliar with the band, The Nymphs were one of the seminal alternative outfits to come out of L.A. in the early 90s -- part of that very brief movement that saw metal, grunge and psychedelic glam all intersecting. Like most of the other bands that became associated with this sub-genre -- Jane's Addiction, Mother Love Bone and so on -- The Nymphs were almost always assured of eventual self-destruction, one way or another. The minute you heard them and saw them, you knew there was just no way they were gonna last, especially not when you considered the fact that their singer -- gorgeous ex-model and professional addict Inger Lorre -- was completely insane. If you paid any attention at all to alternative music around 1991, you were well aware of the various stories of Lorre's sociopathic antics: that she'd once given her boyfriend head onstage; that she ran naked down Melrose Avenue after a band photo shoot; and, most memorably, that she'd gotten drunk and pissed on Geffen A&R legend Tom Zutaut's desk after he confronted her about her "issues."

Suffice to say, Inger Lorre made Courtney Love -- who seemed to follow in her footsteps -- look like a choirgirl.

Lorre's unpredictably lunatic behavior finally reached a boiling point with the rest of the band in 1992.

While they were opening for Peter Murphy.

In Miami.

I was already a big fan of The Nymphs -- crazy hot singer and all -- and therefore a friend of mine and I had made sure to get to the show at the Cameo Theater on Miami Beach in time to see them. When the house lights dimmed, the twin guitars began to crunch, and the stage lights came up to reveal the four guys in the band minus Lorre, I gave it no thought, figuring she was just waiting to make a grand entrance. But as the music went on for several more bars and Lorre remained MIA, I started laughing, turned to my friend and shouted to him over the noise, "She's not here! Inger's not even here!" As the two of us continued to stare at the stage with our mouths hanging slightly open, poor Nymphs guitarist Sam Merrick stepped up to the mic and started uncomfortably warbling his way through the first few lines of the song.

And that's when Inger Lorre finally made that grand entrance. She appeared out of nowhere, sprinted across the stage and grabbed the mic -- knocking Sam aside.

She managed to get about three words of the song out before the music came to an ugly halt, seeming to slowly disintegrate as one band member after another just gave up and stopped playing. One by one, each of them walked offstage, a fatigued and disgusted look on his face.

The band broke up almost immediately after that.

Inger Lorre went on to suffer a full-fledged nervous breakdown.

For the record, The Nymphs at the Cameo in 1992 may not have been the longest show I ever saw -- but it damn sure stands as one of the most entertaining.

From the band's debut album, here's one of the many songs I never got to see live that night: Sad and Damned.



And, also from The Nymphs' debut, it's Imitating Angels.

Big Willie Style

If I did a regular "Picture of the Week," this week's would come courtesy of my friend Steve Bunche: great guy, talented comic artist, true original, purveyor and arbiter of all culture -- foreign and domestic, popular and obscure -- and noble modern-day Samurai.

I lift this shot from his excellent blog "The Vault of Buncheness." The picture was taken last week, as the marquee was being dismantled after the premiere of the new Will Smith vehicle Hancock in London's Leicester Square.

As Bunche puts it, "Now that's a movie I'd see."

For the record, it's good to know that no one will have to work overtime to come up with a title for this movie's all-but-inevitable porn knock-off.

The Centurion Candidate

Over the past several months, I've written only occasionally about the current race for the White House. Sure, lately the number of pieces having to do with the upcoming presidential election have increased, and I haven't held back when it comes to criticizing the actions of some candidates while lauding those of others -- but Deus Ex Malcontent has yet to officially endorse any particular person.

Until now.

So, for the office of President of the United States, I'm getting behind a man with a lengthy military record.

A man who spent time in an enemy prison camp and was severely tortured, leaving him both physically and emotionally scarred.

A man who has serious anger management issues and is quick-tempered to the point of being slightly unhinged.

A man who's often confused about just who the enemy is, makes glaring misstatements, and sometimes can't seem to think clearly.

A man who once called for a long, drawn-out, win-at-all-costs war, even going so far as to contemptuously dismiss any political dissent.

A man who, despite his impressive title, doesn't have the full support and confidence of his peers.

A man who's had a contentious, volatile relationship with his wife, an aging bottle-blonde he blames for publicly humiliating him and against whom he's resorted to at least one unspeakable act that he now refuses to talk about.

A man who can't make a decision without first consulting his friend and superior, and who would likely attempt to continue the kind of rule that's been in place for the past several years, simply because he doesn't know anything else.

A bitter and angry old man with a practically non-existent head of thin white hair and a knack for contorting his face into a near-perpetual steely grimace.

So, who is this man?

Well, of course, he's...

Colonel Saul Tigh.

Why, who did you think I was talking about?


Vote Tigh in '08.

He has a plan.

Here's Johnny!

***NEW JOHN MCCAIN CAMPAIGN COMMERCIAL***
DISTRIBUTION: Nationwide
EMBARGO: None
RUN TIME: 1:00
MIXED AND READY FOR AIR 06/21/08
KILL DATE: TBA

***TRANSCRIPT***

(Cue patriotic music, standard oversized billowing American flag background.)

Hi, I'm John McCain.

You know, recently, there's been some talk floating around the interwebs about how I once called my beautiful wife Cindy, well, a "cunt" in public. I'm here today to set the record straight.

I did in fact call her a cunt... but I'm afraid that the true meaning of the word is being misconstrued.

You see, "cunt" is just old white man lingo for "woman." In the same way that nigg... uh, I mean, blacks... sometimes say "bad" when what they really mean is "good," or when they say "dope," or "fresh" or "funky soul makossa" to mean that they like something... that's what I'm doing when I call my wife a cunt. In fact, Cindy and I have even taken it a step further and made that sort of my pet name for her. Not a day goes by that I don't turn to the love of my life and say, "God, you're such a fucking worthless cunt, and if I weren't running for office I'd kill you in your sleep... now go make me a sandwich."

See? It's just the kind of thing old white men say to their wives.

I don't believe it's fair to criticize cultural differences, especially ones that so many out there and in the media seem to misunderstand. I mean, think of how silly it was when Fox News called the "pound" that Barack and Michelle Obama share a "terrorist fist jab." That's a cultural thing among nigg... uh, I mean, blacks. You wouldn't come down on them for doing something that's popular within their world, would you? No, of course not. But just like a lot of Obama's culture seems strange and foreign to normal people, some of the customs and language of old white man society must also be confusing to those few unimportant voters who won't eventually become old white men themselves. For instance... Cindy and I have our own version of the "pound," and it really is more of a fist jab... like when she wears too much make-up like a cannery row whore and I have to jab my fist into her eye socket.

Once again, it's just something bitter, crazy old white men do... although I learned a couple of "improvements" on the technique during my years being slapped across the face while having "DI DI MOW!" screamed at me and a revolver put to my head.

So before you criticize me for calling my wife a cunt... or criticize any surly elderly man you see engaging in behavior that became unacceptable in decent society a century or so ago, just remember...

It's an old white thing.

You wouldn't understand.

(V/O Track: I'm John McCain, and I approved this horseshit.)

Saturday Morning Cartoons

One Word: Leopold!

From 1949, one of my all-time favorites -- Chuck Jones's Long-Haired Hair.

Q & A

I've already mentioned that this coming Thursday, June 26th, I'll be taking part in Gelf Magazine's "Non-Motivational Speaker" series here in New York City.

As a prelude to that appearance -- at which I'll talk a little, answer some questions, and read from Dead Star Twilight -- Gelf Magazine has just posted an interview with yours truly on its website.

Feel free to check it out, and remember that if you happen to be in New York this Thursday, by all means stop by and let me buy you a drink.

(Gelf Magazine: "Insolence is Bliss" by Adam Rosen/6.20.08)

Gelf Magazine's Non-Motivational Speaker Series
Happy Ending Lounge
302 Broome St.
(between Forsyth and Eldridge)
212-334-9676
Doors open at 7:30.

(More Information)

Falling Man

I love it when just the headline of a story makes me bust up laughing.

Behold:

(The Huffington Post: Glenn Beck Falls Down the Stairs)

Last Exit to Manhattan

With the upcoming addition to the little family that Jayne and I are putting together comes the need for more space.

And so, I'm happy to say that we're finally getting the hell out of the Upper East Side and moving into a very nice two-story townhouse in Astoria.

Signed the lease yesterday.

You're all invited to the housewarming party.

Listening Post

Perfect for a Friday, here's something from the new My Chemical Romance live album and DVD, The Black Parade is Dead.

It's Dead!

Logan's Shun

Immediately after being fired from my job at CNN, I wrote an extended piece decrying the direction that American television news has taken in the last several years (Say What You Will/2.18.08). The one paragraph in that column that best summed up the deplorable state of modern broadcast journalism -- and therefore went on to be quoted quite a few times as the piece made its way around the internet -- was this:

"During my last couple of years as a television news producer, I watched the networks try to recover from a six year failure to bring truth to power (the political party in power being irrelevant incidentally; the job of the press is to maintain an adversarial relationship with the government at all times) and what's worse, to pretend that they had a backbone all along. I watched my bosses literally stand in the middle of the newsroom and ask, "What can we do to not lead with Iraq?" -- the reason being that Iraq, although an important story, wasn't always a surefire ratings draw. I was asked to complete self-evaluations which pressed me to describe the ways in which I'd "increased shareholder value." (For the record, if you're a rank-and-file member of a newsroom, you should never under any circumstances even hear the word "shareholders," let alone be reminded that you're beholden to them.) I watched the media in general do anything within reason to scare the hell out of the American public -- to convince people that they were about to be infected by the bird flu, poisoned by the food supply, or eaten by sharks. I marveled at our elevation of the death of Anna Nicole Smith to near-mythic status and our willingness to let the airwaves be taken hostage by every permutation of opportunistic degenerate from a crying judge to a Hollywood hanger-on with an emo haircut. I watched qualified, passionate people worked nearly to death while mindless talking heads were coddled. I listened to Lou Dobbs play the loud-mouthed fascist demagogue, Nancy Grace fake ratings-baiting indignation, and Glenn Beck essentially do nightly stand-up -- and that's not even taking into account the 24/7 Vaudeville act over at Fox News. I watched The Daily Show laugh not at our mistakes but at our intentional absurdity."

Now keep all that in mind as you watch this interview -- somewhat startling in its candor -- with CBS News Chief Foreign Correspondent Lara Logan. It's from, ironically, The Daily Show.

You Cun't Say That on Television

I wish I could add something to the clip below, but not only can I not make it any funnier than it already is -- I can't put a finer point on just what it says about both the mainstream news media's velvet-gloved treatment of John McCain and its spinelessness in general (especially when compared to the kind of no-holds-barred coverage that's become synonymous with quite a few internet outlets).

This is the latest video from the satire troupe Public Service Administration, and it's in reference to McCain calling his wife Cindy a "cunt" in front of a flock of reporters back in the 90s.

Didn't hear about that?

I'm shocked.

"My Ass, Let's Go... They're Filming Midgets!"

I'll make this quick.

See In Bruges.

The pitch-black comedy/gangster flick is now available on video, and if you're one of the many who missed its short run in theaters, I highly recommend putting it on your Netflix queue somewhere. It stars Colin Farrell and Brendan Gleeson -- both of whom turn in fantastic performances -- as a couple of Irish thugs briefly exiled to the bucolic Belgian town of Bruges after a hit goes terribly wrong. The movie features so many conventions you've seen a hundred times before -- from gangsters on the run, to the fish-out-of-water scenario, to the surreal, Lynchian idiosyncrasies of a small town -- but they're all combined so expertly and with such a deft touch that the resulting amalgam feels completely fresh. Credit for both the purposely dreamlike feel of the film as well as its whip-smart dialogue goes to writer/director Martin McDonagh -- the celebrated playwright behind The Pillowman and The Lieutenant of Inishmore, both of which Jayne and I were fortunate enough to see on Broadway and are still raving about.

It's funny, it's tragic, it's surprisingly moving.

In Bruges is a damn good movie.

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: 666

(The Slayer Tornado Siren)

Meet the Ex-Press

Just a minor housekeeping note, in the form of a shameless plug:

I'll be appearing as part of Gelf Magazine's "Non-Motivational Speaker Series" next Thursday, June 26th at 8PM. The evening of drinking, conversation and unintentional comedy will be held in the event space of the Happy Ending Lounge on the Lower East Side of Manhattan. If you happen to live in the New York City area, here's your chance to pelt me with rocks and garbage; feel free to drop by, as I talk a little bit about the state of TV journalism, answer a few questions, and read excerpts from my memoir, Dead Star Twilight.

Did I mention that the place is a lounge, which means that there's alcohol? Oh, and that admission is free?

Hope to see you there, folks.

Gelf Magazine's Non-Motivational Speaker Series
Happy Ending Lounge
302 Broome St.
(between Forsyth and Eldridge)
212-334-9676
Doors open at 7:30.

(More Information)

Cyrus the Virus

Back in high school, a friend of mine and I had a kind of litmus test -- an instant and surefire barometer -- used to determine whether someone was a complete fucking idiot.

That test: sunglasses indoors.

I'm not talking about the person who walks inside from a sunny day and happens to leave his glasses on for a few minutes; I'm talking about the one who seems to go out of his way to purposely keep his eyes covered in the hope of, I'd imagine, escaping detection from that flock of adoring fans and the strobing flashes it'll soon be aiming in his direction.

Whenever my friend and I spotted this special brand of clown, one or the other of us would make a point to walk up to him and say something like, "Hey, you know, if it's too bright in here we can have somebody turn the lights down for you."

Sunglasses indoors screams one thing: douchebag.

So it's no surprise that during his interview this morning on the Today show, Billy Ray Cyrus kept his oversized neo-Elvis shades on the entire time.

Which confirms something I've suspected for quite some time but have hesitated in officially declaring.

Billy Ray Cyrus is the world's biggest douchebag.

Seriously.

From the over-the-top Beverly Hillbilly aesthetic -- the blonde highlights, ridiculous soul-patch and Gucci calfskin jacket meets University of Tennessee t-shirt he wears without even the slightest hint of irony; to the preening, ego-laden seriousness with which he takes his role on Nashville Star; to his insistence on spouting trite "country wisdom" every chance he gets -- as if he's still some dumb-ass hick living in Appalachia and not worth a goddamned fortune; to his comical belief that Achy Breaky Heart was actually some sort of cultural touchstone; to the fact that he's the father of America's most virulent social disease -- Miley Cyrus -- and a guy who's managed to shamelessly exploit his daughter merely for the opportunity she's handed him to thrust his own worthless ass back into the spotlight; everything about Billy Ray Cyrus's ill-advisedly inflated sense of his own self-worth makes him a walking joke -- a living, breathing advertisement for the necessity of safe and legal late-term abortions -- the kind of guy that, if you wanted to create a "douchebag army," you'd need only a tiny sample of DNA from.

This morning on Today, Cyrus was in fine form -- which means that he was a pompous idiot. As he adjusted himself on the high stool opposite Meredith Viera, assuming the one-foot-on-floor and the-other-on-rung-of-chair pose common to douchebags everywhere -- as if he were a J. Byron model, circa 1979 -- I waited patiently for him to apologize for his appearance. I was willing to give him the benefit of the doubt and assume that he might have recently undergone some sort of eye surgery that had left his pupils dilated and therefore required him to wear sunglasses at all times. But no -- of course not. He was simply wearing them because he's just that cool.

Once again -- douchebag.

Viera began the interview by asking him about the full-length feature film he's now shooting with his retarded daughter and will soon foist on a defenseless American public.

Cyrus did a quick shake of his chemically straightened mane and said, "Yeah, it's gonna be great. We've got a great director, a great script, a great team of folks, and we're shooting in the great state of Tennessee."

I'm kidding about none of this and, as such, would highly recommend that Billy Ray invest some of that money he's making in a fucking thesaurus. And for the record, that "great director" he's talking about is Peter Chelsom, who helmed the forgettable TNT/TBS staple Serendipity and the atrocious Beatty/Keaton/Hawn "comedy" Town & Country, which was released in 2001, making it the second unfunniest thing to happen that year. In Cyrus's defense, I'm not sure that anyone who was raised thinking The Dukes of Hazzard is the height of artistry would be qualified to recognize a decent director when he sees one.

Viera then brought up, of course, the almost baffling success of his kid, Miley Hannah Cyrus Montana.

"Condé Nast says Miley will soon be worth a billion dollars," she enthused.

I held my breath and waited for Billy Ray to respond with an angry, "What'd you call my daughter?!" But no such luck. Instead, he flashed a full row of those perfectly capped teeth and reacted with what I guess was supposed to be pride but what looked eerily lupine. Suddenly, the utility of the sunglasses became obvious, as they were probably hiding the big-ass dollar signs in his eyes.

After awhile, Viera finally got around to the heavily promoted nexus of the interview: Billy Ray Cyrus's supposed "first public comments" regarding the media-driven scandal over his daughter's sexed-up spread in Vanity Fair. At first, she asked Cyrus whether he was even there when the most controversial of the controversial photos was taken -- the one with Miley looking like she'd just woken up after a one-night-stand with the Joker. Billy Ray insisted he wasn't, adopting a sudden air of bullshit humility as he quietly proclaimed that, at the time, he had to get to Washington where his presence was required at a gig honoring U.S. troops returning from Iraq. He dropped the troops at least one more time before the end of the interview.

When asked if he thought another of the photos -- the creepy-as-hell shot of his daughter draped over him while he stared pensively into the distance, presumably at the big bag of money off-camera -- was a little too explicit, as some have suggested, he basically didn't even bat an eye (at least not that I could tell with the sunglasses on).

"Nah, I think it just shows a daddy that loves his daughter a whole lot," he said, then added, apropos of nothing, "We love acting. We love music. We love each other."

"Well, thanks for not making that whole thing any weirder," I said out loud as I sat on my living room couch, munching Funyuns.

Viera then asked why Cyrus didn't fight back against the accusations of those who found the picture offensive. Cyrus, as expected, responded with some good old-fashioned frontier gibberish: "My daddy used to say that the more you stomp in poop, the more it stinks."

It was right about this point that my intestines began moving up through my throat in an effort to mercifully cut off the oxygen to my brain.

The whole thing ended with Cyrus offering one more pearl of wisdom regarding the whole miasma. "You git knocked down, you git back up," he said, smiling with apparent pride at his own profundity.

"Good advice," Viera responded, returning the smile.

I'm pretty sure my jaw went slack, I lost control of my bladder, and the upper part of my body tipped sideways until it plummeted into the couch like a falling redwood.

And all of this was before Today brought out The Clique Girlz -- three bleach-blonde 'tweens named Paris, Destinee and Ariel who look like Hot Topic exploded all over them and whose music is about to "take America by storm."

Wanna guess whose tour they've already opened for?

Congratulations Billy Ray, you pass the test with flying colors.

No Country for Old Men

Just how badly outgunned is John McCain in this presidential race?

Read on:

(Salon.com: "Election 2008: Declare a Forfeit" by Gary Kamiya/6.17.08)


(The Huffington Post: "John McCain's Flashback Campaign" by Arianna Huffington/6.16.08)

Inappropriate Comment of the Day

Am I the only one who thinks Patti Solis Doyle is kind of hot?

(The Huffington Post: Ex-Clinton Campaign Manager Solis Doyle Joins Obama Campaign/6.16.08)

Trim Shady

Snapped this picture yesterday at the drug store up the street from my apartment.

It's a good thing I'm no longer single, because writing about the mere existence of a product like this is going to get me into a lot less trouble than writing about stumbling across a girl who actually uses it.

The Green Effect*

So the weekend box office figures are in, and although M. Night Shyamalan is being credited with "rebounding" somewhat from the unequivocal failure that was Lady in the Water, I seriously doubt he's dancing around his house flipping the bird out in every direction this morning.

The Happening made an adequate 30 million since its release on Friday, but what's worth noting is what, and who, beat it. Rather than sit through Shyamalan's supposedly big-themed "vision" -- something he pushed as high-brow right up until hedging his bet at the very last minute and declaring that he purposely set out to make a B-movie -- millions flocked to see not one but two on-screen characters that don't even exist.

Both The Incredible Hulk and the irritatingly Jack Black-voiced Kung Fu Panda are wholly CGI creations, and both cleaned Shyamalan's clock -- forcing him to settle for third place on a weekend that saw no new studio releases other than his and the Hulkster.

What's more, the bank taken in by The Happening over the weekend will likely be the only first-run money the movie ever sees; there's just no way it's not dropping back 60% this week, as almost anyone who actually wants to see this dreck already did within the past 72 hours.

I'd like to think that all of this will be enough to give the director a much-needed dose of humility and make him think twice about haughtily turning up his nose at -- and raising his voice to -- those who don't defer to his special brand of self-inflated brilliance, but somehow I doubt it.

After this weekend though, let me be the first to spoil the ending of this little saga by revealing the big upcoming twist for you: Shyamalan's reputation as a visionary genius is dead, and the supposedly impressive filmmaking skills he wields have been that way all along.

(Update: And then there's this -- according to IMDB, Mark Wahlberg claims that Shyamalan turned him into a nervous wreck during the making of The Happening by helping him to "get in touch with his inner paranoid." Wahlberg says the nightmares have carried over into his personal life since well after the film wrapped. While I could make oodles of good jokes about Shyamalan giving just about everyone he comes into contact with nightmares one way or another, best I just let the director, as usual, come to his own defense via that special brand of M. Night humility we've all come to know and love. "It's a bad rap. I'm a good guy!" the director says. You know something, Night? At least I admit that I'm kind of a jerk. You on the other hand are made all the more dickheadier by the fact that you actually think you're a prince. Seriously man, go fuck yourself.)

(*For the record, The Green Effect was the working title of The Happening. Ironic, considering that he got crushed by The Hulk.)

Listening Post: Return to the 80s Edition (Part 2: Boys Don't Cry)

It'll probably surprise no one to learn that I could be a pensive and brooding kid on occasion. Teenage years are all about discovery -- that and inflating every little problem to the level of stupid, gargantuan melodrama. Spend your formative years watching enough movies and you start to believe that life is nothing if not one big method act. So, with that in mind, these are just a few of the songs that could often be heard pulsing from my car stereo as I sped along the streets of Miami at midnight, trying to "clear my head," believing that the right music, my car and the night air was required to do it.

Yes, this MTV-era music is slightly more personal -- read: self-indulgent -- than the stuff included on the last list, but I guess I'm curious to find out if anyone else feels the same way about these songs that I do (because if you don't, I'll have to put them on again and tool around the city, lamenting how terribly misunderstood I am but how cool I look being that way).


Peter Gabriel

Peter Gabriel's 1986 album So is a classic -- a near-perfect pop-rock masterpiece. It's one of the few albums that not only came to define the 80s, but has withstood the test of time since. In many ways, it's as fresh, powerful and clever now as it was then. While songs like Sledgehammer, Big Time and In Your Eyes remain seared into the memories of millions, my favorite track on So was always Mercy Street. It was quiet. It was incredibly moving. It was atmospheric. And when I hear it, to this day, it hits me, ironically, like a sledgehammer.

Here's Mercy Street.




Dire Straits

Of all the hits spawned by Dire Straits's astonishing 1985 album Brothers in Arms, it's both surprising and not surprising at all that the one song that's truly held up -- retaining every bit of its haunting, elegiac weight -- is the title track. (If you require proof, note the masterful way it was used in the Season 2 finale of The West Wing.) It may be more than 20 years old, but no matter where I go or what I do, I always make sure that this song is never more than an iPod click away. Ever.

This is Brothers in Arms.




Arcadia

Duran Duran's other offshoot (the more notable being The Power Station), Arcadia, at first glance, probably seemed thoroughly unnecessary when held against the band that spawned it. Despite recording some spectacular music, it's almost impossible to imagine Duran Duran ever having any balls that required being cut off, yet that's exactly what Arcadia somehow managed to do. Still, to its credit, the Simon Le Bon-Nick Rhodes-Roger Taylor creation not only cranked out some surprisingly good material -- full of ethereal layers and truly romantic "new romantic" soundscapes -- but also stood as somewhat of a contradiction: Arcadia was a band formed with the intention of excising the admittedly miminal guitar work of Andy Taylor, and yet Le Bon and Rhodes enlisted the brilliant David Gilmour to play on the album. Regardless, together, they recorded at least a few songs that hold up relatively well.

Here's the gorgeous video for Missing.




U2

Honestly, there's nothing I could say about U2 that hasn't already been said -- except that this is, quite possibly, my all-time favorite song from them.

Here's the title track to the band's 1984 introspective and ambient masterpiece, The Unforgettable Fire.




Mondo Rock

Huge in Australia and practically unknown in the states, Mondo Rock made the kind of powerful and direct alternative pop-rock that seems to grow up out of the ground down under. Despite its complete lack of subtlety, particularly when it comes to the lyrics (which are about the loss of virginity, and led to the track being banned from Aussie radio for some time), I still love everything about this song. Maybe it's the kind of thing that could only have had the effect it did by hitting a teenage kid at exactly the right time -- either way though, it remains one of my favorites.

This is Come Said the Boy.




Genesis

If I go too much into why I like Genesis, early or later incarnation, I really will sound like Patrick Bateman. So, I'll keep it simple: Mama, from the band's self-titled 1983 release, is one of the best songs of the 1980s. No question. While so many consider Phil Collins's In the Air Tonight and its resurrection on Miami Vice to be wholly symbolic of the 80s aesthetic -- particularly the people my age who actually lived in Miami during that decade -- Mama was, in my mind, always the better song to drive to late at night. Don't believe me? Do it now -- tonight. It still works. And incidentally, would somebody please, please wise up and do a really astounding cover of this song? I've always kind of imagined Linkin Park pulling it off.

Here's Mama.




Roxy Music

The night of my senior prom -- an event which culminated in me coming dangerously face to face on the dancefloor with a girl who wasn't my date but whom I'd been in love with for most of my high school years -- I wound up at the remains of an ultra-stylish after party being held in a two-story downtown Miami penthouse. While quietly wandering the place, making my way up the stairs and down one of the long, dark halls, I ran into the same young girl I'd almost kissed a few hours earlier. She had just stepped out of the bathroom and was wearing a white terrycloth robe. I approached her and, without saying a word, she took my hand and wrapped it around the end of the thin strip holding the robe closed and began to make me pull on it. I never took my eyes off her face. As this happened, Roxy Music's Avalon played from somewhere nearby.

Tell me that's not a perfect memory.

Here's Avalon.



Next Week: Return to the 80s, Part 3: Punk's Not Dead

Sunday Sacrilege

This fall, Bill Maher and Borat director Larry Charles will release a full-length documentary called Religulous, exploring the laughably twisted and dangerously batshit world of the deeply faithful.

In preparation for the film, a website has been set up dedicated to making fun of just about every kind of faith-based religion. Its slogan: "You won't believe what people will believe."

Check it out before a fatwa is declared against Maher, mass rioting begins in Nigeria, or the rapture happens -- whichever comes first.

(Religulous: www.disbeliefnet.com)

Saturday Morning Cartoons

From 1950, Hanna/Barbera's Tom and Jerry classic, Texas Tom.

In Memoriam

I'm speechless.

I had just learned of this and was writing this post when NBC made the official announcement:

Tim Russert is dead.

Seriously, a tremendous loss to television journalism.

Urine Luck

Good news, folks: It's totally cool to piss on 13 year old girls.

Plan your Friday night accordingly.

(TMZ.com: R. Kelly Not Guilty in Child Porn Case/6.13.08)

Listening Post: Return to the 80s Edition (Part 1: MTV B-Sides)

The last time I set the Way-back machine for the 1980s, I got a pretty good amount of reaction -- most of it tinged with the kind of bittersweet nostalgia that can only come from folks who miss the days when they didn't have bills to pay and families to support but did have new wave mullet cuts and closets full of trenchcoats with punk buttons all over the lapels. So, once again, we delve into the vault to pull out some of the best music from the new wave/MTV era (of course, I'm talking about when MTV played music as opposed to running noxious crap like The Hills and The Real World), beginning with some lesser-known songs from bands that managed to break through to the mainstream.

Each of these groups had a few hit singles that have since come to define them but which true fans of the genre are now sick to death of hearing. In other words -- and I've mentioned this once before -- for God's sake, put down that 12" of Modern English's Melt with You and give, oh say, Ink and Paper a try sometime.

These aren't B-sides exactly -- just songs that have been criminally underplayed since the days of their release.


Simple Minds

Okay, so everyone knows Don't You Forget About Me. I can honestly say that although it brings back some very fond memories, I'm not sure I ever need to hear the song again. Now contrast the lightweight fluff of that with the sweeping grandeur of the band's 1984 album Sparkle in the Rain, which was, from damn near start to finish, a masterpiece. If you don't own it and haven't heard songs like Waterfront, Up on the Catwalk or East at Easter, drop whatever you're doing and download it immediately.

Here's Speed Your Love to Me.




Tears for Fears

In 1985, Tears for Fears released Songs from the Big Chair and broke wide open here in the states. However, critically at least, the band just couldn't win: Their debut album, The Hurting was roundly knocked for being too dour, while Songs was pummeled for being too poppy. Thankfully, fans didn't care and got fully behind the band's preternatural knack for writing material that was as thoughtful as it was catchy. Although Everybody Wants to Rule the World, Shout and Head Over Heels remain on a lot of people's radar to this day, their earlier stuff has largely vanished from the public consciousness. That's unfortunate, because it holds up surprisingly well.

This is one of my favorite songs not only from Tears for Fears but from the 80s in general: Pale Shelter.




a-ha

If you came of age during the 1980s, a-ha was inescapable. They were MTV -- and with good reason, as the video for Take on Me is admittedly somewhat jaw-dropping even by today's standards. The song itself has become a staple, a modern pop classic. It's one of the first melodies that comes to mind when someone mentions the music of the 80s. But what a lot of Americans don't realize is that a-ha has continued to make damn good music and rack up tidy sales figures since the 1985 release of their mega-hit album Hunting High and Low (a record which Coldplay's Chris Martin says stands as one of his favorites, incidentally). Their follow up to Hunting, 1986's Scoundrel Days, was one of those albums my friends and I almost hated to admit we liked so much, but if you haven't heard anything from it, I highly suggest giving it a listen sometime.

For this list though, we're sticking with their debut. This was the second single from Hunting High and Low -- one that showed a more powerful side of the band.

Here's The Sun Always Shines on TV.




Frankie Goes to Hollywood

Alright, imagine this: All you've ever known of Frankie Goes to Hollywood -- the only thing that's been shoved down your throat for the past two years -- is Relax and Two Tribes. Those damn "Frankie Say" t-shirts are everywhere and their first album, although not bad all-in-all, remains pretty much a triumph of style over substance.

Then, they take the stage at the Montreux Rock Festival in 1986 to debut the first single from their new album, Liverpool, and they hit you with this.

This remains one of the only new wave pop songs to truly thunder with insurrectionist punk fury. Even lip synced, it works. Here's Warriors of the Wasteland.




Nik Kershaw

Let me just go ahead and get this out of the way: Nik Kershaw's Wouldn't It Be Good is one of the best pop songs ever recorded. Period. It's as good today as it was when it was released back in 1984, a point proven by the number of times it's been covered in the past quarter-century (because the mark of great songwriting is the ability for a piece of music to endure). What a lot of people here in the states don't know, however, is that like a-ha, Kershaw's been putting out exceptional albums since his heyday. Although iTunes unfortunately carries none of the material he cranked out during the late 80s, it'd be worth anyone's while to try to hunt down albums like Radio Musicola and The Works.

But going all the way back to his debut album, here's the rarely seen original video for Dancing Girls.




The Cure

You can judge a person almost entirely by whether he or she likes The Cure's brighter more upbeat material or their darker, more brooding stuff. (I would advise having nothing to do with anyone who has no use for The Cure either way.) It will likely surprise no one to learn that I prefer the latter as opposed to the former. My all-time favorite Cure song, actually, is Burn from the soundtrack to the movie The Crow. Beyond that though, 1989's Disintegration really might be, as Kyle once claimed on South Park, the best album ever. I admit that this is a bit of a cheat, since this song was actually big hit for the band and is still remembered fondly by fans -- but I'm including it because the average child of the 80s still goes batshit at the first strains of the God-awful Just Like Heaven or Friday I'm in Love.

Here's a fantastic live version of the song with the greatest bass line in rock history: Fascination Street.




The Go-Go's

If I never hear We Got the Beat or Our Lips are Sealed again, I won't complain. The truth is that the follow-up to the Go-Go's hugely successful debut album was not only a vast improvement, the damn thing holds up shockingly well to this day.

From 1984's Talk Show album, here's Turn to You.




Hall & Oates

Yes, I know -- this is seriously cheating. Hall & Oates have never really qualified as new wave, whether in their first, second or third career go-rounds. Still, I'd be remiss if I didn't pull one of their most underappreciated songs out of relative obscurity and give it a place here. At the risk of sounding like Patrick Bateman, 1984's Big Bam Boom wasn't half bad all the way around. It produced a few big singles, all of which took their place alongside the music the duo is now most remembered for -- songs like Maneater, Private Eyes and I Can't Go for That. But the album had one song on it that always stood out for me -- a song I still listen to quite a bit these days, because it's just that good.

Here's Some Things are Better Left Unsaid.




***UPDATE***

Big Country

I've never adjusted the site based on the suggestions of a commenter, but I have to make an exception this time. This is a last minute addition, one that I'm really kicking myself in the ass for initially overlooking because it's a perfect example of a band whose one hit became absolutely definitive of the 80s while by no means being the best song the group recorded. Sure, everyone remembers Big Country's 1983 hit In a Big Country, but almost no one in the states remembers their 1984 follow-up single.

This is, once again, one of my favorite songs of the 1980s: Wonderland.



Next: Return to the 80s, Part 2: Boys Don't Cry

Welcome to My M. Nightmare

What follows is a piece I wrote in July of 2006, when my blog was in its anonymous infancy. I posted it briefly, then eventually removed it from the site. But with the release tomorrow of M. Night Shyamalan's latest unintentionally hilarious love letter to himself, The Happening, I figured it was time I brought back this little tale of my morning with Night.

FADE IN:

INT. LARGE OFFICE BUILDING CAFÉ

Light streams in through the giant floor-to-ceiling windows of a large office building in Midtown Manhattan. The sun creates long, ominous shadows -- cast from the various ominous cafeteria-style chairs which are scattered about the large room. In the distance we hear the ominous sounds of workers going about their morning routine. There is a sense of forboding all around -- heightened by the ominous tones of two or three drawn-out notes composed by James Newton Howard, apparently in his sleep. This single shot goes on -- uninterrupted -- for another five minutes. Don't argue. This is art.

Slowly the camera pans over and when it finds THE FRUSTRATED NEWS PRODUCER seated, it begins a fixed-field dolly-in/zoom-out shot -- because this is a completely unimaginative first-year film student trick. THE FRUSTRATED NEWS PRODUCER, a quiet and mysterious everyman with an obligatory dark secret, hears a sound off-camera and slowly glances up from the floor. The sense of foreboding is now palpable. James Newton Howard draws out a fourth or fifth note.

INT: END OF LONG HALLWAY LEADING TO CAFÉ

A door opens slowly -- ominously. The camera follows the feet of THE BIG-TIME MOVIE DIRECTOR who walks through the door; behind him the multiple feet of his ENTOURAGE can be seen following closely, eager to be in the presence of such artistic greatness. The horde of feet moves slowly down the hall -- possibly in slow-motion, because that'd look really, uh, ominous -- toward THE FRUSTRATED NEWS PRODUCER.

INT: LARGE OFFICE BUILDING CAFÉ

THE FRUSTRATED NEWS PRODUCER -- having already figured out the incredibly obvious ending of this story -- simply shakes his head and sighs, wondering to himself why he didn't choose a more noble profession -- such as peep-show attendant. He speaks in an ominous whisper as James Newton Howard's sixth note rises to a crescendo.

FRUSTRATED NEWS PRODUCER: "I see arrogant people."

FADE TO BLACK

It's a Hollywood cliché that's as old as Joan Rivers's first face, but if there's any value left in it then it may be safe to say that I'll never work in this town again.

This morning, I pissed off M. Night Shyamalan. Pissed him off to the point of getting a condescending lecture from him. A lecture which could better be described as a humiliating public chewing-out. A humiliating public chewing-out as in a questioning of my qualifications as a news producer and more than likely a human being in general. I could go on and on until I'm reduced to the size of a dust mite, but I assume you get the picture.

It happened after the taping of an interview with him, Paul Giamatti and Bryce Dallas Howard -- all of whom are wisely busting their asses to promote Shyamalan's latest cinematic insomnia cure and last-ditch chance at cultural relevance, Lady in the Water.

Before I explain the details, let me rewind. (If this were a Shyamalan movie, it'd be in the form of a nebulous flashback which would hint at the film's final silly twist).

For the past couple of months, I've remained pretty steadfast in my desire to never divulge my place of employment, nor ever to write about anything that goes on there. I have no problem pontificating on the media in general, but when it comes to the day to day specifics of my job or my opinions of them, I'd rather keep my big mouth shut. I have New York City rent to think about; the less I put my income at risk, the better. But I'm willing to bend the rules ever-so-slightly in this case for several reasons which include, but aren't limited to (A) the fact that it's a really hysterical and infuriating story, (B) the fact that it proves unmistakably what Shyamalan's detractors have been saying about him for years -- namely that he's a raging egomaniac, (C) the fact that there's still enough subversive punk left in me that I'd love to exact a small amount of revenge, even if it's simply by discouraging one person from seeing a Shyamalan film, and most importantly because (D) if I don't say something, the world will believe that this man was all sweetness and light to both me and my network -- since I already know for a fact that our completed story will portray him favorably, and that pisses me off.

Let's flashback a little further; it's a ridiculous parlor trick that I'm sure Shyamalan would appreciate.

The story behind the making of his new movie, Lady in the Water, is the stuff of Hollywood legend. It's well documented in the painfully awful new hagiography The Man Who Heard Voices: How M. Night Shyamalan Risked His Career on a Fairy Tale. The short story is that Shyamalan ("Night" to his friends, of which I obviously can't count myself one) pitched the idea to his personal di Medici family at Disney, only to have them express reservations about the idea of turning a bedtime story he told to his kids into a multi-million dollar investment. During the "Creative Process," it's said that Shyamalan threw a fit when Disney studio chief Nina Jacobson wasn't at home to personally receive a hand-delivered script as if it were the lost five commandments. It's also said that in spite of Disney's reservations, they were fully willing to green-light Shyamalan's pet project based solely on their faith in his vision (and keep in mind, this was the same vision that gave us The Village, a movie whose final twist I actually figured out from watching the commercials). Still, Shyamalan wasn't feeling the love, and petulantly walked across the street -- taking his script about pool-nymphs and grass monsters to the more trusting suits at Warner Brothers.

I've seen the result. The movie is average at best.

I should probably mention that I never thought The Sixth Sense heralded the arrival of the next Spielberg. I figured out the ending about fifteen minutes into it, and although I admired the clever construction and willingness to allow the plot to simmer rather than boil over, I never understood why a series of static shots and a sleepwalking Bruce Willis constituted such a laudable achievement. I actually think it says something about the film industry as a whole that a guy like Shyamalan can be considered a visionary auteur. I often wonder what our collective opinion would be if we didn't have Michael Bay and Rob Cohen to compare him to. Shyamalan gets popcorn bucketfuls of credit for a style that Kubrick perfected a generation ago.

Since his breakout hit, Shyamalan has yet to prove himself to be anything more than a self-important myth created by none other than Shyamalan himself.

Lady in the Water does little to change that. It boasts a fantastic performance by Giamatti, but that's become as common in Hollywood as tiny dogs in handbags. Howard meanwhile is asked to do little more than meet the necessary standard of "mysterious luminescence." The supporting cast is composed of fine actors who do their best to buy into Shyamalan's fairy-tale mythology; how they keep a straight face most of the time is beyond me. The movie also takes Shyamalan's legendary self-indulgence to unparalleled heights; he casts himself as a writer whose destiny is to change the world, and he literally eviscerates a film critic in a sequence which is no doubt supposed to be funny and clever, but instead winds up looking like the celluloid tantrum of an upset child.

On the plus side, if you completely suspend logic and disbelief -- seemingly a requirement for most Shyamalan movies -- you might not regret spending the ten dollars. Once again, it's got Giamatti; it can't be all bad.

So now we flash-forward to this morning. See what a simple trick that is?

I was saddled with the task of setting up and producing the interview with Shyamalan, Giamatti and Howard, and rather than do the usual, boring in-studio thing, I wanted to show a little vision myself. My initial plan was to shoot the interview in the screening room theater within my office building; unfortunately it was booked. My backup plan was to shoot it outside with the city as a backdrop; unfortunately it was too damned hot. So we went to plan C.

Plan C involved setting up a table at the edge of the café within our building; it's relatively quiet at the hour we needed it, and has a massive window with a beautiful view of Central Park. My hope was for the interview to look less like an interview and more like a casual conversation. There would be coffee. There would be a roundtable discussion. There would be three Hollywood heavy-hitters just relaxing. I even made arrangements to make sure that the entire interview was shot with handheld cameras -- cinema verité-style.

After sitting down and being mic'ed up, it took all of about ten seconds for Shyamalan to begin voicing his displeasure. At first it was done in the form of not-so-subtle jokes.

"This is really where we're doing this?"

"Don't your big anchors actually get sets?"

"Hey, can I get a tuna fish sandwich? This is a cafeteria right?"

I smiled and played along, stunned at the level of professionalism I had unwittingly adopted at some point during my career -- a career which was at that moment flashing before my eyes, as a man who makes his living directing films was picking apart my production techniques. This was of course immediately followed by the realization that in reality, nothing would be cooler -- or more personally beneficial in the long run -- than to have M. Night Shyamalan get me fired.

Over the next twenty minutes, the jokes turned to open hostility.

"This is like high school."

"This is ridiculous."

And my personal favorite:

"Somebody's gonna get railed when this is over. I just want you guys to know that. I just want to warn you that it's coming. You've never seen me on a movie set, but you're gonna."

I can call M. Night Shyamalan a lot of things -- "hack" and "asshole" immediately come to mind -- but I suppose I can't call him a liar. As promised, the moment the cameras stopped, the bitching started.

Shyamalan pulled me and his Warner handler (a man with the apparent patience of Job) aside, and basically did his impression of the shark in Jaws during the final clash with poor Quint. Once again there were accusations of unprofessional work: he was distracted by noises in the next room; he didn't like the look of the shots; we obviously didn't care enough to take this interview seriously. He then pulled an argument out of his ass that was so transparent, you would've thought it was the first half of The Village.

"Look, I don't care about me. You can do what you want with me. But these are good actors and they deserve better."

It's a testament to Shyamalan's oft-maligned acting skills that he actually managed to project something akin to genuine concern for someone other than himself. I fought the urge to applaud. What I did do though, was smile; I smiled the entire time. The thought which kept that grin glued to my face was simple: thank God this guy knows nothing at all about me, otherwise he'd be speaking to my boss right now; if he understood anything at all about who he was talking to, he'd be too worried about leaving here on a stretcher to actually be taking this shit up with me.

As he continued to rant, I noticed that he was either delusional or narcissistic enough to believe that everyone around him adhered to his personal point of view unquestioningly (and you wonder why the leaps of logic in his movies). He flat out said that both the anchor conducting the interview, and the video crew taping it had told him that they agreed that the shoot was shit. Suffice to say I suffered through the tapes of the interview several times during the course of the afternoon. He apparently really is hearing voices.

The most cringe-inducing part of this story however, will be the final insulting act. In a day or two, this interview will hit the airwaves. Once edited and post-produced, it will be exactly as originally advertised. It'll be a blow job for the movie, and its pig-headed director will look positively golden. All day I've grappled with this journalistic dilemma -- one that I admit is relatively silly in the great scheme of things (although even Murrow thought celebrity journalism represented all that is unholy in this business). The issue is this: we went into this story with the mindset that we were going to -- at least peripherally -- ask a director about his own personal issues which may have stood in the way of getting a movie made. During the interview, he proved every single negative comment we had heard about him to be unequivocally true. What's worse, he knew that it didn't matter how he behaved, because he arrogantly -- although probably correctly -- assumed that we would paint him in a rosy light either way. Once again, it takes either self-delusion bordering on sociopathy, or messianic conceit to believe that no matter what you say or do, the television crew who can make or break you with a single edit will somehow fall in line and heap adoration on you.

This is the why M. Night Shyamalan isn't a visionary so much as a megalomanical bully. I now know that first-hand.

FADE IN:

INT. LIVING ROOM AT NIGHT

THE FRUSTRATED PRODUCER sits at his computer typing away furiously. The camera pans around to show the computer screen. On it is a website. A closer examination reveals that it is a MySpace site -- specifically the official site of THE BIG-TIME DIRECTOR.

THE FRUSTRATED PRODUCER hits the "FRIEND REQUEST" key.

The camera zooms in on THE FRUSTRATED PRODUCER'S face. An evil smile spreads across it.

THE FRUSTRATED PRODUCER laughs hysterically.

FADE TO BLACK

(Update: As of this afternoon, Shyamalan's new movie, The Happening, is scoring a dismal 14% at www.rottentomatoes.com. For the record, even Lady in the Water managed 24%. Looks like you've got another winner on your hands there, Night -- although I have no doubt that, as usual, you'll chalk the negative reaction up to everything and everyone but your own laughable self-indulgence. Sucks being a genius among idiots, doesn't it? Oh well, maybe as with your character in Lady in the Water, it will take future generations to understand your prescient, Orson Wellesian brilliance and worship you accordingly. Course, you'll be dead by then.)

Fight Cub

In "I Can't Make This Crap Up" news: The daughter of Star Wars creator/defiler George Lucas just completed her very first public mixed martial arts fight. It happened over the weekend in Auckland, New Zealand, where she fought under the stage name Amanda "Powerhouse" Lucas.

So George, now do you see what a really embarrassing sequel can do to a successful franchise?

(Defamer: Getting to Know Your Extreme Fighting Children of Legendary Hollywood Superproducers/6.10.08)

Don't Cry for Me, America

Bob Cesca makes my life so much easier. Every time I feel the urge to talk politics, he manages to put something together for the Huffington Post that not only says exactly what I'm thinking, but manages to say it better than I could have myself. So, once again, I tip my hat to Cesca and point everyone I can in the direction of his appropriately smart and vicious piece responding to our illustrious Idiot-in-Chief's public lament earlier this week that he'll be remembered as a "war-mongering" president.

"War mongering is a significant aspect of your legacy, but I think we can conclude, and without much debate, that your legacy will also be one of criminality, failure and a degree of incompetence rarely achieved by any American president, much less one whose deficit of character is rivaled only by his nearly unprecedented lack of humility in the face of his unprecedented roster of inadequacies.

Sorry.

As it turns out, you won't have much control over your legacy and the history of your administration anyway. You might have some cursory input, but no-one really takes you seriously anymore and anything you put forth will be taken as just another work of fiction; another bit of propaganda.

Your legacy will ultimately be written by those of us who have been actively documenting your presidency in real time -- millions of voices authoring the narrative of your awful regime and preserving it with digital clarity one trespass at a time.

And everywhere we look, we can plainly observe your smirking, affectless footprint."

(The Huffington Post: "Sorry Mr. President, But Your Legacy Is More Awful Than You Think" by Bob Cesca)

Listening Post

Before she became nothing more than a silly self-parody, Courtney Love looked like she just might be the last real rock star.

Here's the furious, scathing brilliance of Violet.

The Outsider

The look on Bryan Bell's face alone would've made the whole thing worth the effort.

A current senior producer on CNN's American Morning and, ironically, the man who moved me up to New York from the network's Atlanta hub -- unwittingly setting off a chain of events that would eventually lead to me being fired -- Bell was one of the first people I ran into upon faux-casually strolling into the lobby of the Time Warner Center last Wednesday morning.

"What the hell are you doing here?" he asked, sharply breaking his stride in my direction and contorting his face into a wide-eyed mask of appropriate surprise. He was, after all, suddenly standing face to face with a ghost -- someone who four months previously had been shown the door to the building and wasn't supposed to be allowed back in under any circumstances. Yet, there he was. There I was.

I shot Bell a smirk tinged with as much subversive attitude as I could muster -- which, given the situation and the level of insurgent impertinence required of me to bring it about, was quite a bit. "Going to the internet conference up on 10," I said as I glided past him, spinning and pushing a quick fist into his shoulder. "Good to see you, man."

He was still staring in some form of disbelief as I turned and squeezed between the closing doors of the elevator, locating the familiar button for the 10th floor almost involuntarily and punching it.

We're just about at the end of "Internet Week '08" here in New York City, the first of what organizers hope will be an annual event aimed, from what I can gather, at bringing together the powerful movers and shakers of the digital and media worlds in a concentrated effort to better understand and more fully utilize the internet to jack the American consumer. All week long, various seminars, panel discussions, cocktail parties, meet-and-greets and opportunities for hipster hook-ups have been going on throughout the city. And while Internet Week probably isn't the sort of boon to New York's prostitution industry that, say, last month's annual Fleet Week celebration was, it's admittedly allowing for an unusual confluence of ideas and cultures, as at least a few of the gaunt and scruffy Red Bull addicts of the internet underclass -- still basking in the post-orgasmic afterglow of Comic-Con -- are granted entrance to the Emerald City and afforded a rare audience with the mighty media wizards who usually prefer to remain safely behind the curtain of their office doors. For the people at the top, it means a chance to get a better handle on that whole "internet thing," while for the young upstarts on the bottom, it presents a host of opportunities to kiss a little Illuminati ass in the hope of landing the kind of job that will allow them to pay their hefty student loan tabs and fulfill their dreams of transforming themselves into that Ferrari-driving techno-smart-ass kid from the National Treasure movies.

As someone who violated the accepted protocol and did everything backwards -- slipping from the warm embrace of corporate media favor to tumble down and land in journalism's not-so-soft underbelly -- I haven't been sure of my personal place in the Internet Week festivities. Almost everyone in attendance has either already "arrived" or is looking to devour his or her way up to the top of the food chain; I've recently taken up residence near the bottom. A lot of them are nursing big aspirations of getting in; I still have a fresh shoe print on my ass from being kicked out.

In other words, I knew going into it that I'd probably spend a lot of time asking myself just what I was doing there -- regardless of where there happened to be at any given moment.

But the Time Warner Center wasn't like any other stop on my Internet Week itinerary: It's the building that houses CNN's New York studios, which means that it's where I worked for three years before being fired a few months ago for, of all things, blogging. Bryan Bell, my friend and former co-worker, was right in echoing and putting a finer point on my own sentiments: What the hell was I doing there?

I only had a few seconds to ponder whatever combination of brass balls and rank stupidity led me to venture back into the belly of the beast before the elevator doors separated, depositing me on the TWC's 10th floor for last Wednesday's "Conversations on the Circle" breakfast panel discussion, sponsored by Time Warner and moderated by CNN's porcine D.C. bureau chief, David Bohrman. As I stepped out of the recessed and muted lighting of the elevator, the first thing that struck me was the contrast. I'd never considered the Time Warner Center public office area from the perspective of a civilian and therefore hadn't noticed that everything a visitor sees -- from the moment he or she walks through the revolving door entrance and navigates security to the ride up in the high-speed elevator -- is covered in light-absorbing black slate and brushed steel. The whole place looks like the Death Star, only slightly more imposing. Walking in, you get the impression that somewhere in the building, there's a control room for a laser cannon mounted on the roof with enough firepower to destroy 30 Rock. But that sense of foreboding lifts the second you arrive on 10 -- the top visitor-accessible floor and the main conference area. It's almost as if the building's interior designers purposely aimed for a William Blake-style "heaven and hell" motif, with the dark and spare street-level lobby representing the heretical netherworld and the lofty heights of the 10th floor symbolizing the kind of elysian hereafter that awaits only the most noble servants of the mega-media ethos.

Put simply, everything on the 10th floor is so damn bright. The floors gleam with the polished reflection of overhead lighting, the halls are coated with an eggshell matte; there's even a surreal Vegas-like array of white pinpoint lights that flashes uselessly along one wall leading to the conference area, which is itself an awe-inspiring separate section of the floor complete with 20-foot high ceilings and massive picture windows providing spectacular views of the city beyond. At no point during time spent in the TWC's conference area will anyone cease to be impressed by its grandeur and reminded that he or she is being given a chance to converse with the enlightened beings atop Olympus.

I edged past the seemingly life-like welcome drones, the thin attractive women dressed in smart black Nehru suits waiting outside the elevators. Their job was to direct attendees to the Hudson conference room where the morning's seminar was being held, but I figured I knew where I was going and didn't need to ask directions -- plus, the further I kept my head down, the better. I'd already signed in downstairs, in hell, so when I arrived at my destination -- a spacious room dotted with several high, circular tables and featuring a spartan coffee and juice buffet station against one wall -- I dropped my shoulder bag and immediately made a bee-line for the food, my thinking being that if I was going to listen to Dave Bohrman for an hour-and-a-half, at least I could do it on a stomach full of high-quality freebies.

I had staked out a table and was engaged in a conversation with one of the morning's other attendees -- each of us about half-way through a cup of coffee and a blueberry muffin -- when the announcement was made that it was time to begin. Slowly, everyone around me picked up their things and began filing into a separate room, some grabbing a road bagel or final bottle of water off the food table as they passed it. I didn't say anything out loud, but the revelation that we weren't going to be forced to stand throughout the seminar drew a small sigh of relief out of me; up until that point, it had been impossible not to notice the giant screen on the wall opposite the breakfast table, upon which was the projected image of four empty chairs -- one would assume, the places where our esteemed panelists would soon be sitting. At one point, I wondered if they'd just keep us happily noshing while, somewhere far removed from the riff-raff, Bohrman and company addressed us via teleconference. Either way, the sight of those four empty chairs looming over me and my fellow guests as we snacked was more than a little unnerving. I kept waiting for the faces of the Kryptonian High Council to suddenly appear, bellow that we were all "GUILTY" and banish us to the Media Phantom Zone.

Especially me.

I was the guiltiest man in the room, after all.

But as I joined the herd pushing into the next room -- as I readied myself to come face to face with one of CNN's most powerful news managers -- I wondered if I was the only one who knew it.

I followed the crowd of a couple hundred into the conference room proper, and the first thing I noticed was the view.

In what seemed to be a deliberate effort to further impress upon the attendees of the "Time Warner Conversations on the Circle: Internet and News" seminar just who the hell they were dealing with, the guest seating for the event faced toward the giant floor-to-ceiling windows which made up one entire wall. Opposite the glass was a panorama of the West Side of Manhattan that was even more breathtaking than anything we'd seen previously. I made my way over to the far side of the room and took a comfortable seat in the third row, the raised platform and four empty panelist chairs now no longer a projected image on a screen but a three-dimensional reality just a few feet in front of me. I reached into my bag, pulled out a reporter's notebook and waited for the discussion to begin -- or at least for security to realize the mistake that had been made and forcibly escort me out of the building.

Thankfully, the former happened before the latter.

David Bohrman was introduced as an award-winning producer and the "inventor" of the CNN/YouTube debates by a grinning representative from Time Warner who then flitted away to grab a seat directly in front of the dais. Even for a company flack, the rep seemed a little too eager to be there -- particularly so early in the morning; as I watched him adjust his front-row seat, I found myself waiting to see if he'd suddenly produce a clear, watermelon-proof tarp with which to cover himself. My split-second reverie was broken by the sound of Bohrman's voice in front of me and booming from the speakers overhead, drawing my attention back to the stage.

Besides maybe salesman-of-the-month at a Hummer dealership, David Bohrman looks like he could only be one of a few things: the unhealthily stressed-out head of a newsroom, a noticeably overindulgent corporate shill, or the manager of a political campaign. The fact that he is, in reality, all three should come as no surprise to anyone. Bohrman's a large man, with a hairline that's receded to just about the very top of his head and a well-groomed salt-and-pepper beard. He wears thin-framed eyeglasses that all but vanish against his prodigiously round face, as well as the kind of suspenders and J.C. Penney tie combo that make it seem as if he's purposely attempting to be a walking promotion for Larry King Live. Bohrman would be intimidating if he weren't such a damn news cliché in the Jerry Nachman vein, only infinitely more acquiescent to the hatchet men in the adminisphere. His claim to fame when it comes to supposedly bringing CNN into the 21st century is twofold: He was the chief architect of The Situation Room -- that daily sonic onslaught and tribute to the short-attention span -- and of course, he was, as was previously touted and would be throughout the length of the event, the "inventor" of the CNN/YouTube debates. (For the record, to hear CNN refer to these debates and their place in history, you'd have thought the things had cured cancer and aligned the planets.)

Bohrman quickly took a seat, leaning back to allow everyone an inescapable glimpse at the desperate effort the buttons down the belly of his shirt were undertaking to avoid popping off one-by-one into the crowd. I started to wonder if I should've brought my own tarp. He introduced the rest of the panel, the members of which were all conspicuously younger than him: There was Nadira Hira of Fortune magazine, and, as we'd find out, the group's designated "Gen-Y" expert; Steve Grove, head of news and politics for YouTube (also, "the cute one"); and Michael Scherer, a Washington bureau correspondent for Time magazine who appeared, at least from where I was sitting, to be wearing a clip-on tie.

Bohrman started in almost immediately, posing the burning question "what is the internet?" to no one in particular. His own answer was hilariously ironic in its anachronism, given the subject matter.

"It reminds me of that old Saturday Night Live skit that asks, 'Is it a dessert topping or a floor wax? It's both!' Well that's kind of like the internet."

In my notes, I jotted down:

INTERNET = DESSERT TOPPING, FLOOR WAX

What I didn't bother writing down -- because I knew I'd remember it -- was that Bohrman started things off by referencing a gag that had been on TV at least three years before anyone on the panel was even born. It was readily apparent that this kind of just-not-getting-it would be standard operating procedure throughout the discussion -- at least as far as the CNN end of things was concerned.

For the next 20 minutes or so, the panel pontificated on the role of the internet not simply in politics in general, but in this particular presidential race. Hira, once again possessing a virtuosic grasp of "kids these days," brought up Obama's popularity on Facebook and compared the Obama campaign's use of the web and the McCain camp's to the Yankees taking on a little league team. Upon realizing that someone had broached the Facebook phenomenon, Bohrman interjected and reacted with surprise that people could actually forge any sort of meaningful bond with someone who's nothing more than a flat presence on a computer screen, then drew the only analogy he could, saying that a lot of people feel the same kind of connection to Wolf Blitzer.

"He's like a Facebook friend," he said.

I found myself wondering how Wolf would respond if I Superpoked him.

Bohrman then once again brought up the CNN/YouTube debates, just in case anyone had forgotten about them within the last two minutes.

What seemed to outright shock David Bohrman the most, however, was the notion that the panelists -- this new breed of journalists -- actually interacted with their audience, and did so free of many of the constraints that had previously been carefully put in place to shield both the members of the media and the organizations for which they worked. Bohrman may be a trailblazer when it comes to updating the philosophical mindset of the mainstream media, but both the technology and its true impact on what journalists do and what's expected of them is still well beyond his grasp. As I sat listening to him, I realized that likely without meaning to be, he was almost comically arrogant in his apparent belief that the multifarious corporate media giants could embrace the technology needed to thrive in the new world, yet still preserve the single most important necessity to their bottom line: control. Over and over again, the young panelists hammered home the fact that the internet has brought with it an unprecedented level of transparency in our society and culture, particularly when it comes to media organizations, and that the upcoming generation can smell marketed bullshit a thousand miles away, even through a broadband line. Bohrman, meanwhile, seemed to cling to the idea that the heavily-controlled CNN "brand" could translate perfectly to all forms of new media -- that those who are relying more than ever on the internet for their information will trust a big-profit-driven news organization without question the same way they did when they, quite frankly, had no other choice.

As the discussion went on, Bohrman seemed to sink deeper and deeper into the quicksand of an outdated way of thinking. He dismissed The Daily Show and defended the top-down model of information dissemination, which basically dictates that the organizations at the supposed pinnacle of the media carry the most authority. By the same token, he belittled -- probably inadvertently -- the news gatherers and aggregators at the forefront of the new media revolution, saying that the stories they break can be judged by whether or not they "percolate up" to the major networks -- whether the king-makers on TV and in print deem them worthy of a place within their hallowed ranks.

At one point, Bohrman even mentioned his excitement at reading a column on The Huffington Post which linked back to, of course, CNN.com -- ostensibly proving his point.

It was right about then that my hand shot up.

For the next 45 minutes, I sat quietly as Bohrman looked directly at me -- meeting my gaze several times -- but never called on me. This, despite the fact that there were rarely more than a half-dozen hands raised at any given moment as the forum morphed into a question and answer session.

I continued to take notes and continued to keep my hand up, but was strangely by-passed over and over again. Whether Bohrman was aware of just who I was personally and/or my status as an ex-CNN employee and current troublemaking blogger I couldn't tell (although I'd bet that if he reads HuffPost, he's familiar with me in name if nothing else). One thing's for sure though: The conference wrapped up without me being able to ask my question.

Which is why, as the event ended and invited guests began making their way toward the doors, I stood up and headed in the direction of David Bohrman.

"Hi Dave, my name's Chez Pazienza," I said, smiling and extending my hand. "I don't know if you know who I am -- I used to be a producer here at CNN."

He returned my smile and handshake, but seemed distracted. Later, while leaving the building, I'd call my friend and fellow ex-CNNer Jacki Schechner, who used to work closely with Bohrman, and ask her if he was always so nervous and twitchy; she'd say no.

"I'm just curious," I asked, my eyes glued to the face atop his towering frame, "you mentioned reading The Huffington Post and said you were thrilled to see links there leading back to CNN's website. Do you ever read the comments from HuffPost readers whenever someone writes about CNN or, I hate to use this term, corporate media in general?"

"What do you mean?"

"Well, they're not usually very complimentary. A lot of people who get their news from the internet are doing it because they don't trust you guys anymore."

He shifted on his feet, his eyes darting well above my head before finding their way back to me. "I don't know -- I mean, I don't think that's true."

"My question I guess is, do you feel at all like CNN as a television organization -- your 'brand' -- is in competition with new media? How do you fight the perception that there's something very wrong with the mainstream media in this country?"

He paused for a moment, then gave me a relaxed smile. "I think organizations like CNN complement new media. There's a symbiotic relationship between the two. We don't see new media as some kind threat."

And with that final word, he took a step back, giving me the international symbol for polite dismissal.

"Alright, thanks for talking to me, Dave -- I appreciate it," I said, then, just for the hell of it, threw him a curveball: "By the way," I smiled, "Jacki Schechner says hi."

See, Bohrman was Jacki's immediate supervisor during her time as a CNN internet reporter, and despite having hired her, he was either unwilling or unable to take a stand in the face of network president Jon Klein's decision to fire her last August -- which might prove better than anything I witnessed at the "Conversations on the Circle" forum that both he and CNN have no idea what matters to those who subscribe to the internet ethos, as Jacki Schechner knows the blogosphere inside and out and was an incalculable asset to an organization attempting to assert its new media dominance.

Either way, I knew she'd be a sore subject, and watching Bohrman suddenly falter and fidget restlessly at the mention of her was even more satisfying than the look on Bryan Bell's face when I first walked in the door.

"Oh, well," he sputtered. "Yeah, I really miss her." He adjusted his shirt and ran his palms down the front of his pants.

"I'll tell her you said that," I said with a smile, turning and walking away.

Less than 60 seconds later, I was back where I'd been for the four months since being fired: outside the Time Warner Center and beyond the purview of CNN and mainstream media in general.

As I silently wandered the massive shopping area directly under the Time Warner Center's glacial blackened glass towers, I did my best to figuratively pat myself on the back for being willing to go back into the belly of the beast and face whatever I found there -- to stick to the ideals that might've gotten me fired in the first place.

I'd made it inside and back out again. I was safe.

So, to celebrate, I took the escalator up to the Bouchon Bakery and rewarded myself with a sandwich and a bowl of soup -- which I paid for with the unemployment debit card issued to me by the state of New York.

(Photo Credit: Time Warner Center, from southwestern corner of Central Park, by Braesikalla. More of his photographs can be found at Light Infusion. They're all fantastic. Please, you buy.)

Black Hole Son

Everyone knows that you can't judge a film by its trailer these days. The smart pop culture whizzes who put together the coming attractions can make any film -- no matter the quality or genre -- look appealing to whichever audience they're aiming for with a couple of nice edits and a little good music.

Case in point, the damn entertaining amateur trailers that have made the rounds lately which feature scenes from classic movies, re-cut so that Jaws and The Shining are made to look like comedies or The Notebook is turned into a slasher movie.

Or this: A fan-made trailer from Disney's 1979 big-screen joke, The Black Hole, re-edited so that the movie actually looks like it might be decent.

Listening Post

Download this and listen to it on your way to work. It does wonders for the morning commute.

Here's the Chemical Brothers with the Verve's Richard Ashcroft -- The Test.

Blame It On Baby

As I mentioned, I'm out of town right now. For the record, Jayne and I are in Pennsylvania with her family, and are now trying to figure out where the hell we're going to put all the baby clothes and gifts we raked in during Jayne's shower yesterday.

Among the attendants: The lovely Stacey of Pajiba/Litely Salted/WIMB fame, and the coolest lady around, Ms. Mix & Bitch.

Thanks to them and everyone else who showed. And of course, thanks for all the wonderful baby swag.

Once again, haven't had time to write, but that CNN column should be up tomorrow morning for your enjoyment. Think of it as a great (or at least somewhat average) way to start your work week.

Apocalypse Ahora

I posted basically this exact piece at roughly the same time last year. Its sentiment still applies perfectly -- especially since, as luck would have it, I'm once again mercifully out of the city on this onerous day.

And behold I saw the Seventh Seal broken.

And the streets became as swarth -- and the skies became as blunt smoke.

Everywhere, there were girls with huge asses in absurdly tight jeans, foul mouths full of gold teeth, multiple children from different fathers, and no hope of ever getting that GED.

There were men with cigarettes tucked behind their ears, oversized fake-gold chains around their necks, outstanding bench warrants numbering in the double-digits, and a minimal chance of not being incarcerated by this time next year.

All around, there were low-riders, colorful flags of all shapes and sizes, a hilariously ill-advised sense of pride and the faulty assumption that those who live along 5th Avenue are happy to play host to such a festive event -- particularly in 97 degree heat and 112% humidity.

And Daddy Yankee's Gasolina blared from every speaker.

Yet, through all of this chaos, God did in fact prove himself powerful, kind and compassionate.

Because, as it turns out, I'm out of town today -- and therefore don't have to deal with the fucking Puerto Rican Day Parade.

(Yeah, I know. I suck. You know the drill: Direct all complaints here.)

Sunday Sacrilege

You Couldn't Script It Better

A couple of weeks back, I briefly mentioned that the copy editors I last worked with on CNN's American Morning were hilariously incompetent; I believe "as sharp as a pillowcase full of wet toilet paper" were my exact words (Conscience Doth Make Crusaders/5.27.08).

Well, I've just been informed that one of them was fired a couple of days ago.

This makes the second time in recent memory -- third if you count Barb Simon, whom I never mentioned by name but who was a large part of the management team I heavily criticized -- that I've pointed out the failings of a CNN employee on this site, only to have him or her fired soon after. The first time, you may remember, was when I railed against the guy who sacked me, Ed Litvak, and saw him shown the door two weeks later (How To Lose a Job in 13 Days?/2.25.08).

Either somebody over there is listening, or the dismissals simply prove what I've been saying for some time about what's wrong with the show.

I seriously doubt that it's the former, but just in case: The real problem at CNN is that Jon Klein is still in charge and I don't have controlling interest in the company and a penthouse atop the Time Warner Center.

Oh, and an Audi R8 -- CNN needs to give me one of those too.

Saturday Morning Cartoons

Three words: Bring on Freep!

From 1948, Friz Freling's High Diving Hare.

Label Pains

You'll probably notice that I've begun the nightmarish process of attaching labels to all past posts. Needless to say, this little retrofitting operation will be both time-consuming and a pain in the ass on par with spending an entire day at the DMV, but bear with me.

It shouldn't affect the material on the site, except to make your humble narrator fucking insane.

Delays, Delays

Sorry folks, but due to circumstances beyond my control, you'll have to wait a little longer for my piece on Internet Week and my return to CNN.

I'm aiming for tomorrow.

Whether or not I hit it is a different story.

Listening Post

There's nothing less funny than really white guys trying to co-opt hip-hop lingo -- particularly gangsta rap. And yet the level of good-natured goofball mockery that these guys heap on that entire aesthetic -- while still paying homage to its source material -- makes this song and video pure genius.

Here's Dynamite Hack doing Eazy E's Boyz-N-the-Hood.

(This song, by the way, is available as part of the unofficial "soundtrack" to my memoir, Dead Star Twilight. It and the rest of the music from the book can be found here and here, and downloaded from iTunes.)

Indie Jones

A reminder that I'll be live on Sirius Satellite Radio's "Indie Talk" Channel 110 this afternoon at 5:30pm EST.

I figure I'll be talking about my little insurgent mission back into the belly of the mainstream media beast yesterday morning. I'm referring to my appearance at Time Warner's "Internet & Journalism" breakfast panel, which was held deep inside the very building I was shown the door to a few months back upon being fired by CNN.

Remember that even if you don't have a subscription to Sirius, you can listen in on the network's website.

And look for a full report on my return to Time Warner and CNN, tomorrow.

Surrender, Hillary

I wanted to write something about Hillary Clinton's destructive, delusional narcissism in respect to her unwillingness to graciously step aside in the wake of the big Obama win the other night. (Like a child demanding attention, she was perfectly content to pace back and forth stomping her feet, and would've remained that way had her own Congressional supporters not forced her hand in the strongest possible terms.)

But Bob Cesca, one of the Huffington Post's best and most prolific contributors, put it all out there a hell of a lot better than I or anyone else probably could've.

(The Huffington Post: "Even in Defeat, It's All About Her" by Bob Cesca/6.4.08)

Lard of the Dance

Oprah says she's been doing "the happy dance" since Barack Obama clinched the Democratic nomination for president on Tuesday night.

At least now the U.S. Geological Survey will be able to breathe a sigh of relief, as this should explain all those spikes in its seismic readings over the past couple of days.

(CNN.com: Oprah Doing the Happy Dance Over Obama Win/6.5.08)

(By the way, in response to Oprah's attempt to steal her gimmick, Ellen is promising to turn the tables and scarf down sixteen plates of macaroni and cheese prepared by Rachael Ray.)

The English Impatient

There's a new commercial for Silk brand pretend milk that's turning up on TV more and more. It features a woman standing in front of a spare white background and talking to the camera about the joys of drinking something made from beans.

She says, "At first, I admit I was pretty weary about trying Silk."

Which would mean that the thought of branching out to a new kind of milk made her very, very tired.

I have surprisingly few grammatical or vocabulary pet peeves, but for the record:

Weary = Tired

Wary = Cautious

Sure it may not seem like a big deal, but if we let this crap slide the next thing you know we'll all be thinking it's perfectly acceptable to pronounce nuclear "NOO-kyu-lur."

Riled Bill

Hack Journalism

"CBS 3 Philadelphia: We Are the News!"

-- New Slogan Idea for KYW's Consideration

Dave Barry used to call it "The DeSillers Effect."

Back in 1987, a young Miami boy named Ronnie DeSillers died while awaiting a liver transplant that would likely have saved his life. The case garnered national attention, particularly when Ronnie's middle-class mother, Maria DeSillers, set up a fund to help pay for her son's medical bills during his time in the hospital. Her pleas for financial help reached all corners of the country -- even then-President Ronald Reagan donated -- and eventually more than a half-million dollars accumulated in the account. Upon Ronnie's untimely death, Maria DeSillers created a foundation in his name to help other children facing the same desperate medical battle her son had been forced to endure; the donations were ostensibly to be the backbone of the foundation.

For months, as Ronnie DeSillers fought for his life, local and national news organizations followed every breaking detail. For many people, the boy had become like part of the family.

When Ronnie died and his mother vowed to fight on in his name, most figured that was the end of the story.

The whole thing remained largely forgotten, until about a year later -- when Maria DeSillers was pulled over in Miami driving a brand new BMW.

Turns out, she'd spent almost half of the donations sent to her family -- about 250 grand, for those keeping score -- on the car, a metric ton of new jewelry and, of course, a luxury condo.

So Dave Barry created a term for the inevitability that every big story, no matter how complex or bizarre, will have one final, unbelievable twist -- and that it'll happen long after everyone has put the initial item out of their minds.

"The DeSillers Effect."

Here's the thing though: It was only suppose to apply to stories coming out of Miami, given that the city is, without question, the most batshit lunatic place on earth.


As it turns out though, the DeSillers Effect is apparently viral, because a former Miami news reporter and anchor has dragged it with her to her new home in Philadelphia. Of course I'm talking about Alycia Lane, everyone's favorite bikini-clad, dirty picture-sending, foul-mouthed, cop-slugging, news sex-kitten. She's back in the headlines again, in a manner of speaking. Her co-anchor at KYW in Philly, Larry Mendte, is now under federal investigation for allegedly hacking into Lane's private e-mail account and leaking what he found to gossip columnists. The feds raided Mendte's home a few days ago, confiscating his personal computer, and he remains off-air until the dust settles one way or the other.

You'll remember that back in January Alycia Lane was fired from her plum, $700,000-a-year anchor job at KYW after a series of very public, very embarrassing incidents -- these included sending pictures of herself in a bikini to former ESPNer Rich Eisen (they were intercepted by his wife), crying on national television while discussing her divorce with Dr. Phil, and getting arrested for reportedly calling a female NYPD cop a "fucking dyke" just before hitting her. Little Miss Sunshine has been uncharacteristically quiet since being shown the door, but has supposedly always felt like someone on the inside handed her up. Federal officials claim that Lane's suspicions are what led them to take the case -- which sounds infinitely more respectable than admitting that Lane offered to send them half-naked pictures of herself in return for investigating the matter.

If Mendte really does turn out to be the mole -- which would sort of befit his ferret-like appearance -- it could benefit Lane's claim of wrongful termination against KYW and its media masters at CBS. It shouldn't -- not even a little bit -- but it could. She's slyly insinuating that her co-anchor was the Phantom Menace, secretly selling her out to The New York Post's "Page Six" as far back as 2003, when the paper somehow got ahold of the scathing e-mail Eisen's wife sent Lane in response to the ill-advised bikini pics meant for her husband's eyes only. Lane claims Mendte was jealous of the stratospheric career track she was on and the hefty paycheck it afforded her -- as well as, one would imagine, her powerful right hook -- which led him to sabotage her. If proven true though, Mendte's got bigger problems than just incurring the wrath of CBS, which might have to pay up as a direct result of his skulduggery: rifling through someone's e-mail without permission is a felony and could land him in prison.

It'd be easy to say that Alycia Lane -- the subject of so much public ridicule for so long -- could wind up having the last laugh in this whole long, drawn-out and thoroughly embarrassing episode.

But I think that's actually reserved for Dave Barry.

He's probably laughing his ass off about this.

Related:

(Low Is Lane/1.8.08)

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: 460

If you happen to work in an office full of middle-aged recent divorcées trying desperately to reassert their desirability: 25,000

(Hens and the City)

Listening Post: Evolution Edition

A couple of new songs from bands that have been around for a while.

Up first -- as much as I give credit to Linkin Park for moving forward from their original nu-metal roots, their last album, Minutes to Midnight, was rather average all the way around.

That said, I like their latest video because it pays homage to an underappreciated movie from last year: Danny Boyle's Sunshine.

Here's Leave Out All the Rest.



Next, another spectacular video from Weezer (it's practically a given by now).

This one trades on the familiarity of all sorts of funny -- and/or thoroughly annoying -- internet memes.

It's Pork and Beans.

Guess Who's Coming to Breakfast? (Update)

I've just been sent an e-mail confirming me for tomorrow's breakfast seminar, "Time Warner's Conversations on the Circle: News & Politics," at the Time Warner Center here in New York.

The TWC is home to CNN and is therefore my former workplace, which should make for an interesting morning to say the least.

I'll also be talking in detail about what's discussed at the seminar, about Internet Week New York in general, and whatever other nonsense happens to come up live on Sirius Satellite Radio's Indie Talk 110, this Thursday afternoon at 5:30pm EST.

Clear your schedule.

Terry On

WASHINGTON (CNN) -- Hillary Clinton is expected to concede Tuesday night that Barack Obama has the delegates needed to secure the Democratic nomination, campaign officials told the Associated Press, but Clinton's campaign manager denied the report.

The former first lady will stop short of formally suspending or ending her race in her speech in New York City, said the officials who spoke to the AP on condition of anonymity, because they were not authorized to divulge her plans.

However Terry McAuliffe, Clinton's campaign chairman, told CNN that AP is "100% reporting incorrectly."

"I don't know who the officials are, but anyone can be an official in this world. I can unequivocally say as chairman of this campaign that until someone has the numbers this nomination fight continues on," he said. "The race goes on."

McAuliffe went on to say that "reports that President John F. Kennedy is dead have been greatly exaggerated," "as of right now, there appears to be minimal damage to the World Trade Center," and "there is no presence of American infidels in the city of Baghdad. There are no troops there. Never. They're not at all."

(For the record, McAuliffe's absolutely right -- anyone can be an official in this world. He proves it.)

Flag Hags

From the "Not the Least Bit Surprising" file, there's this:

(ABC: Giant Confederate Flag to Fly Over Tampa/6.2.08)

Gotta love Florida.

Am I the only one who thinks that maybe if the deep South had simply been allowed to successfully secede from the Union, we might be in much better shape these days? What the hell would we have lost: Alabama? Mississippi? Miami? NASCAR? Jesus? Insane apocalyptic ramblings? State and federal laws based on 2,000 year old superstition? Incest? Billy Ray Cyrus?

Does that really sound so bad?

If "Dixie" had gone its own way, within a hundred years the place probably would've looked a lot like the country depicted in Idiocracy.

By the way, do yourself a favor and read the indignant comments after the story above, and be impressed by the rise of internet access in America's trailer parks.

(Of course I'm joking about most of this. Still, countdown to comments from people calling me an "ignorant" asshole in 3... 2... 1...)

Guess Who's Coming to Breakfast?

So it's "Internet Week '08" here in New York City (hold your applause, please).

Beginning tomorrow and continuing through next Tuesday, various seminars, events, cocktail parties and meet-and-greets will be held at different locations around the city. The basic idea is to give the nation's technological and media bigshots the chance to come together and discuss how to intelligently adapt to the digital world and best use the internet to make a crapload of money. But it'll also give the scrappy movers and shakers among new media -- of which I can now count myself a member -- the chance to rub elbows with the Illuminatian elite of the corporate media. It promises to be an interesting confluence of ideas and cultures, if not the sort of overwhelming boon to the city's prostitution industry that last month's annual Fleet Week was.

Needless to say, I'm totally signed-on for the open bar events.

That's not why I'm mentioning any of this, however.

No, I bring this up because one of the first seminars scheduled for the week is a breakfast panel focusing on the impact of the internet on journalism and vice versa.

It's entitled "Time Warner's Conversations on the Circle: News & Politics."

It's being held at the Time Warner Center, home of none other than CNN -- in fact, it's moderated by CNN's Washington Bureau Chief, Dave Bohrman.

And guess who just registered for it.

(Why the picture? Because if you know who Spacey's character is and what he's saying right there, it's just perfect.)

Who's Crying Now?

I confess -- I've always had a place in my heart for Journey.

They really have recorded some of the best anthems of my generation, as cheesy as the songs may seem by today's standards. I'm sure you've noticed by now that the band has been back in the news lately thanks to their new lead singer, Arnel Pineda. He's a dead-ringer for both Steve Perry's voice and hair, and was discovered by Journey guitarist (and the dumbest man in rock n' roll) Neal Schon via YouTube. Schon searched the site and spotted a video of Pineda playing in a cover band in the Philippines, was blown away by his vocal range, and paid for Pineda to fly to the states to audition.

It's admittedly an incredible story, made amusingly moreso by the fact that Journey concerts now include a slightly surreal influx of proud Filipinos.

One person not happy about all of this is Lou Dobbs.

In a statement, Dobbs is already decrying what he calls "the outsourcing of American pop music to the Third World," and claims that Pineda "puts a strain on our country's national resources by forcing concession stands at concert venues to make sure they have enough dog on the menu to satisfy his fans."

No comment yet from Journey.

Listening Post

They call themselves Bertolt Brechtian Punks, which is just a fancy way of saying that their aesthetic comes directly from Alan Cumming's Tony-winning performance as the Emcee in the superb revival of Cabaret a few years back. Either way, they're one of the best live shows you'll ever see.

Here's the Dresden Dolls doing Sing.

Raising Hill

Hopefully, you got the chance to see HBO's damn good movie Recount, about the underhanded machinations and near-psychotic fight for votes that ensued in Florida immediately following the 2000 presidential election. In addition to being a snapshot likely to trigger depressing alternate reality fantasies that wipe away the nightmare of the last several years, it paints a picture of the sickeningly Machiavellian lenghts that Republicans went to in an effort to stop the vote recount -- in particular, the staged protests (read: near-riots) designed to terrorize adversaries to the breaking point.

An exercise in irony that's beyond description, however, is to watch Recount, then pay close attention to the behavior of Hillary Clinton's supporters yesterday at the Democratic Rules and Bylaws Committee hearing. Clinton's frighteningly rabid apostles -- who've been conditioned by their leader not to take no for an answer, no matter what -- bear a resemblance to the bullying GOP warriors of 2000 in ways that would be hilarious if they weren't so damn sad. (Protests are one thing; shouting, booing, making pseudo-extremist threats and otherwise being disruptive inside the meeting room itself is something else entirely.)

Hillary's journey to the dark side has been complete for quite a while -- but there's no need for her zombies to rub it the hell in.

(CTV: Hillary Supporters Furious with Hearing Decision/6.1.08)

The Right to Write?

Decent Sunday morning reading: The sad-but-true tale of my firing from CNN gets another set of news legs, compliments of the American Journalism Review.

In all honesty, Kevin Rector has written a thoughtful and thorough article on the current conflict over personal internet writing among journalists. It details the questions being raised, the institutions that are making their policies crystal clear, and the ones which seem to be sticking their heads in the sand and hoping that this whole blogging fad will pass.

(American Journalism Review: "Murky Boundaries" by Kevin Rector/5.30.08)

"Just Keep Asking Yourself: What Would Jesus NOT Do?"

Chuck Palahniuk's Choke has been made into a movie. This is good news. What's even better news is that Sam Rockwell is the star of the film, playing misanthropic, sexual support group-addicted con man Victor Mancini.

Here's your first look.

Sunday Sacrilege