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