Deus Ex Malcontent

A Modest Proposal

2008-05-16T22:00:00.004-04:00

I'll make this quick and dirty.

Can we finally beat the living shit out of George Bush?

I realize that the mere suggestion of physical aggression toward a sitting president -- regardless of its basis in satire -- is often likely to warrant some kind of response from the Secret Service. But honestly, haven't we reached the point where we can come together as a country and just admit that this particular president really needs a serious ass-kicking? Over the past eight years, he's lied to push us into a war that's killed thousands of Americans and destroyed our reputation around the world, trampled our civil liberties, drowned the city of New Orleans, decimated the economy, halted scientific progress in the name of idiotic superstition, murdered the English language and through bald-faced incompetence, fucked us in every way possible while turning the same smug smirk our way over and over again as he does it -- and now he says he's given up golf in a show of solidarity with our war-ravaged troops and is comparing Barack Obama, a guy who was smarter in Pre-K than Bush is today, to those who tried to appease the Nazis in the lead-up to World War II (this last obscene indignity commited on foreign soil, essentially a violation of a gentleman's agreement aimed at preventing petty infighting in front of the neighbors).

By this point, every possible argument against the policies of George W. Bush has been made; rational Americans have attempted any and all tactics to force this White House to acknowledge the harsh reality of its idiocy, irresponsibility and illegality. Basically, we've tried everything -- and nothing's worked; the will of the people just deflects harmlessly off the force field generated by Bush's gargantuan ego as filtered through his miniscule intellect.

So really, if somebody has a better idea I'm all ears -- but I'm pretty sure we've run out of options. I just don't see Bush understanding anything other than a shitload of us stomping his arrogant ass into the ground. Guys like him, Cheney, Rove -- hell, even Condi (who's more masculine than all the aforementioned men put together) -- sleep like babies every night, safe in the knowledge that their mastery of the art of misdirection and obfuscation has left them untouchable to anyone constrained by the rules of civilized society. The only thing left then is to say fuck it, stop playing by the rules and get all uncivilized.

George Bush has never been much more than a tough-guy wanna-be -- an alcoholic pussy who runs crying to Daddy or Jesus when things get hard and/or when he fucks everything up; no matter the weight of his current title, he's still basically the same silver spoon-fed frat boy douchebag he's been since day one.

And you know the best way to deal with guys like that, right?

So come on America. Words will never hurt him (particularly not the ones in the Constitution) -- but sticks and stones should still do the trick nicely.

(For Entertainment Purposes Only ☺)

Members Only

2008-05-16T13:36:00.009-04:00

Never have I been more proud to be associated with 23/6.

Behold, what could be 236.com's crowning achievement.

(Dickipedia: A Wiki of Dicks)

Listening Post

2008-05-16T08:59:00.001-04:00

I'm not sure I've ever posted the same video twice, but if there's any band that deserves as many mentions as possible, it's Abandoned Pools.

They're one of those groups that everyone should know about and this song in particular is something I never get tired of hearing.

Here's The Remedy.

You Call Yourself a Friend?

2008-05-16T07:36:00.011-04:00

Yesterday, a 49 year old Missouri woman was indicted on federal charges in connection with the suicide of a 13 year old girl who lived up the street from her. Lori Drew is accused of posing as a teenage boy on MySpace, then "taunting Megan Meier to death" (an allegation that's somehow being made with a straight face). Needless to say, Meier's mom was all over the morning talk shows today, demanding a life-sentence for Drew and unleashing volley upon volley of practiced indignation in defense of not only her late daughter, but ostensibly all of America's perpetually "cyber-bullied." Back in January, I addressed this somewhat dubious issue -- figuring that the questionable indictment that's just been handed was already well on its way.

I'm a big fan of Law & Order and generally mouth a little "Get 'em Jack" every time Sam Waterston's character -- grizzled, incomprehensible DA Jack McCoy -- pulls some clever legal tactic out of his ass to get a conviction.

This fact, in addition to providing a glimpse into the tragic nature of my daily existence, would probably lead you to assume that I'm one of those people who believes in justice-at-all-costs -- doing whatever is necessary to make the guilty pay.

Not exactly.

Case in point: Today's L.A. Times details a plan by federal prosecutors in Los Angeles to file charges against a Missouri woman who allegedly posed as a teenage boy on MySpace, then taunted a 13-year-old girl until the kid hung herself. Both state and federal attorneys haven't yet been able to touch Lori Drew -- who, as it turns out, lives only a few doors down from the victim. The reason of course is because technically she didn't violate any laws; it isn't a crime to pretend to be someone non-existent online, befriend a person, then reject him or her (which in this case caused the unfortunate "mark" to go into an admittedly nasty downward spiral).

Let me rephrase that -- it isn't a crime yet.

Displaying the sort of knee-jerk imprudence that's become de rigeur from today's gladhanding lawmakers -- a reaction which emphatically belies the fact that there are still a hell of a lot of real problems across this country in need of attention -- Missouri legislators are now pushing to close the loophole that's allowed the state's apparent epidemic of online bullying to continue unabated. They want to make it illegal for an adult to "harass a child online" -- because once again, this sort of thing happens all the time and it's about time someone did something about it.

The real tragedy in all of this, at least insofar as it pertains to the ability of the lawmakers in question to shamelessly milk such grandstanding for all it's worth come election time, is that the name of the victim in the Missouri case is Megan Meier -- and, unfortunately, there's already a "Meghan's Law."

At one time, we prided ourselves on being a nation of "laws, not men." Possibly the most obvious proof that we've become willing to bend this once-hallowed tenet of the rule of law is that our government now sees nothing wrong with enacting legislation as a direct, politically expedient response to a single high-profile crime, then slapping the name of the victim of that particular crime on said law -- just to drive the point home.

But while Missouri's working on cracking down on future Lori Drews, let's not forget the feds in L.A. who think they've come up with a novel way to nail the one still walking around free after supposedly ridiculing a kid to death.

It's the kind of clever legal ploy that would put a gleam in Jack McCoy's eye, really.

The want to charge Lori Drew not with killing Megan Meier -- but with defrauding MySpace.

How exactly?

By creating a phony account, using a fake name.

I'll give you a minute to stop laughing.

According to the Times, a federal grand jury has already served MySpace with a subpoena, demanding that the site turn over any information on the fake profile used to harass Meier. The mother of the victim meanwhile says exactly what you'd expect her to say -- expressing the popular sentiment that's given life to such a farcical tactic: She doesn't care what Drew is nailed for, as long as she's nailed for something.

Although points for creativity are certainly in order, experts agree that there's a pretty good chance this case, if brought to court, will quickly be thrown out of court.

Still, the potential legal precedent being set for the sake of making one admittedly rotten woman pay for her cruelty is something that should be neither overlooked nor underestimated.

Those who immediately bring up First Amendment rights obviously have a strong argument.

But beyond that, consider the three-ring circus of litigation that could roll into MySpace's little cyber-town should prosecutors succeed in getting this taken seriously in a courtroom. The potential consequences are as ridiculous as they are far-reaching.

A quick glance at just my own MySpace profile page should give you some idea. Among my "friends" are Sheriff Bart, Dr. Leo Spaceman, Pootie Tang, General Zod and Frank the giant rabbit from Donnie Darko. Even Charles Bukowski has his own profile -- and he's dead for Christ's sake. Now before you begin dismissing these kinds of profiles as being obvious jokes and bearing little resemblance to the built-to-terrorize site allegedly concocted by Lori Drew, remember that they're all equal in the eyes of the law.

That's what a precedent is, and common sense often takes a back seat to it -- particularly when it's wielded by a canny lawyer.

No one's saying that Lori Drew, if guilty of what she's being accused of, isn't a God-awful human being -- one deserving of a place in a special little circle of Kafka hell.

But it boils down to this: You cannot legislate every kind of bad behavior.

When you try to, it's usually the good people who suffer.

I Am the Goddess of Hellfire, and I Bring You...

2008-05-15T07:53:00.006-04:00

So, you know how the first couple of rounds on American Idol are always dedicated to those cringe-worthy circus freaks who don't seem to display a shred of talent, yet who still labor under the delusion that they've got what it takes to win and wind up making complete fools out of themselves?

Among those poor, sad souls -- you know the overweight black girl in tasteless clothes with the badly and brightly colored hair who invariably gets up in front of everyone and shrilly screams her way through a really lousy song no one's ever heard of while bouncing all over the place, only to be laughed at by the stunned judges, forcing her to storm off while insisting to a pitying America that she's gonna be a star one day -- you just wait?

Well, guess what?

At least one of them was right -- because she went on to fucking win American Idol.

Seriously, watch this "performance" from underachieving former Idol winner Fantasia on last night's show and say to yourself the same thing that Jayne, myself and Simon Cowell did (watch for the hysterical look on his face):

WHAT... THE... FUCK?!

A hearty congrats to Fantasia; in three short minutes, she managed to pulverize the credibility of American Idol more handily than Sanjaya Malakar, Jason Castro and that "Vote for the Worst" website combined.

Short Attention Span Theater: Death Be Not Proud (But It Is Cost-Effective)

2008-05-14T10:25:00.004-04:00

Since I'm somewhat incommunicado at the moment, I thought I'd dredge up a little something from the archive. This piece ran in December of last year. I'm resurrecting it because it was recently published in an Australian magazine (in case you don't know, I'm like Lex Luthor in that country) and that's as good an excuse as any to put it back on the front page.

Even from where I was, in the bed on the opposite side of the room, it was possible to see the gruesome surgical-steel staples bisecting Miguel's head. They ran like a set of corroded train-tracks from ear-to-ear, just beyond the hairline which framed the top of his face.

I'd spent three days trying to figure out exactly what had happened to the man who was my roommate at the Cornell Medical Center Neurosurgical ICU. I watched the nurses run him through the daily regimen of post-op skill tests -- if you consider the ability to open your eyes, follow a finger held in front of your face or correctly state your own name a "skill." Likewise I watched Miguel fail many of these tests over and over again: He could barely keep his right eye open, at one point leading the nurses to get creative and use a piece of surgical tape to secure his open eyelid to his forehead; he never spoke in anything above a barely-audible mumble; his movements were languid and sluggish, as if his bed were sitting at the bottom of an invisible tank of water.

It wasn't until the day that Miguel's children showed up -- when I was forced to sit silently on the other side of the room and watch a tragic bit of theater play out in front of me -- that I finally worked up the courage to ask the nurse just what kind of catastrophe had taken place inside his ruined brain. Watching Miguel interact with his little boy and girl, or at least attempt to, was utterly heartbreaking. He seemed to barely notice they were there -- hardly respond when his wife, a short Hispanic woman who spoke little English and looked like she'd spent the past month sleeping on broken glass, stroked the palm of his hand. The nurses had been kind enough to put a patch over Miguel's dead eye and a Yankees cap on his head in the hope of hiding the most obvious scars of the surgery from his children, but even someone who had never met this man until a few days ago could tell that he was a mere vapor trail of what he had once been. Whoever or whatever had shredded his mind, it had done so with all the subtlety of a sledgehammer. Where Miguel had once lived, there simply wasn't anyone home anymore.

I wasn't even looking at the nurse when she explained Miguel's situation to me; I couldn't pull my eyes away from the sad scene unfolding directly opposite my hospital bed. In hindsight, it was the juxtaposition -- the image of the shadow man across from me set to the weight of the nurse's words -- that left me feeling as if someone had suddenly sucked all the air out of the room.

Miguel, as it turned out, was recovering from surgery to remove a brain tumor -- the exact kind of tumor that had been removed from the same place in my head just three days earlier.

He and I were basically the same person.

And yet there we were: One of us reduced to the mental and motor skills of a child, the other able to watch him intently and try to analyze why.

There was a simple explanation actually as to why I couldn't recognize myself in the mirror of Miguel's one good eye so to speak -- why the layman would never guess that he and I had once shared the same diagnosis. It was because everything that happened after that point had apparently been drastically different, all of it culminating in two forms of surgery which, despite having the same goal, went about achieving it in ways that were light years apart. The operation that Miguel underwent may as well have been done by Theodoric of York compared to the hyper-advanced microsurgical resection that was performed on me by one of the country's most revered neurosurgeons.

Miguel was left with a massive scar; I had none.

Miguel had been in the hospital for well over a week, and would likely be there much longer; I would spend only five days in the ICU, then be disgharged.

Miguel likely had years of mental and physical therapy ahead of him; In spite of a few problematic after-effects and a steady diet of medication that my body and brain would require for some time to come, I'd be back on my feet and feeling relatively normal within weeks. Right now, if I didn't tell you I had undergone surgery just a year-and-a-half ago to remove a tumor the size of a pinball from my brain, you'd probably never guess that anything had happened to me.

Same medical crisis -- completely different outcomes.

And as I sat there just a couple of days after my surgery, staring at Miguel -- at the mess his brain had become and the hardships he was now facing -- I reached one conclusion that seemed to be as obvious as it was offensive.

There but for the grace of my insurance carrier go I.

I work for one of the largest media conglomorates in the world. In fact, throughout the length of my career, I've rarely been employed by a company that wasn't wealthy, multi-national and in a position to offer its full-time staff access to the best healthcare money can buy. Yet something about this fact has always rubbed me the wrong way.

"The best healthcare money can buy."

An ironically sickening reminder that in the early days of 21st century America, there's nothing that's above having a price tag slapped on it -- not even your life.

The parents of 17-year-old Nataline Sarkisyan understand this all too well. On Friday, they laid their daughter to rest in Glendale, California -- one week after her death, which closed a harrowing three-year fight with bone marrow cancer. Hundreds were on-hand for Nataline's memorial service, including a few celebrities who had taken up the cause of saving the young girl during her last days. Their appeals hadn't been directed at God or Mother Nature -- two entities who tend not to listen anyway -- but toward a much more powerful body when it comes to deciding whether a human being lives or dies these days: an HMO, specifically Cigna Corp.

Just before Thanksgiving, Nataline underwent a bone marrow transplant, complications from which caused her liver to fail. Cigna twice refused to authorize a liver transplant, despite a written appeal from her doctors (the company insisted the procedure was "experimental"); it was only after the case began to receive national attention and young Nataline Sarkisyan's picture began turning up in newspapers directly above captions calling her "the face of a broken healthcare system" that Cigna capitulated, reconsidering its death sentence. The company's chief medical officer issued the most public statement possible in an attempt to cast damage control as legitimate concern. He said that Cigna -- in a show of strength-through-mercy humorously reminiscent of Amon Goeth's decision to spare one life out of a hundred thousand in Schindler's List -- had decided to make an exception for Nataline "given our empathy for the family and the unique circumstances of this situation."

And the angry hordes picketing in front of their Philadelphia headquarters.

"We volunteered to pay for it out of our own pocket. We decided to bear the risk even though we had no obligation to," the good doctor went on to say.

It's a damn shame Al Gore already got that Nobel Peace Prize.

Unfortunately, in one of those unforseeable twists of fate, Cigna's big-hearted largesse came just moments too late. Nataline died a few hours after the decision was made to grant her the liver transplant that would've prolonged her life.

Well, as is repeated so often this time of year, it's the thought that counts.

Earlier this year, a lot of unnecessary controversy was generated by muckraking filmmaker Michael Moore's excellent indictment of the American healthcare system Sicko. I say unnecessary because, despite whatever feelings one may have about Moore or his politics, only the most ruthless capitalist would be unwilling to admit that the way we care for the sick in this country is almost irredeemably screwed up. We've given an entity as unscrupulous and indifferent as the free market control over the single most imperative decision in human existence -- literally, whether we live or die. Regardless of what Fox business-creature Neil Cavuto may have to say on the subject, healthcare and profit are two thoroughly antithetical concepts. Giving CEOs the authority to stand on the edge of the arena and issue a final thumbs-up or down while we lay incapacitated or dying is like charging a lion with protecting the Christians.

The most shocking and infuriating two minutes of Sicko, and the most effective, as Moore wisely allows the guilty parties to do all the talking for him, provide an irrefutable answer to the question of just how things got this way -- how a system that was once predicated on a commitment to good healthcare for all Americans became a cynical money-generating engine that's perfectly willing to let people suffer if it means turning a profit. Moore plays part of an audiotaped conversation between Richard Nixon and his flunkiesque Assistant for Domestic Affairs John Ehrlichman. The conversation is staggering insofar as the complete lack of shame on display (even from two men whose ignominy was already the stuff of legend). Ehrlichman advises Nixon on a plan to overhaul American healthcare that's being put forth by industrialist Edgar Kaiser -- the founder of Kaiser Permanente. Nixon says to Ehrlichman, in classic insufferable, who-gives-a-crap-about-the-little-people fashion, "You know I'm not keen on any of these damn medical programs." Erlichman reassures him by saying the magic words: "This is a private enterprise one. Edgar Kaiser is running his Permanente deal for profit. All incentives are toward less medical care, because the less care they give them the more money they make."

Nixon's reaction?

"Well that appeals to me."

Thus were sown the seeds of the modern HMO; the day after that conversation took place, on February 18th, 1971, Nixon proposed a new National Health Strategy based on managed care from private companies. It worked toward obliterating social medical programs -- because "Socialized Medicine" had long been dirty words, the product of anti-Soviet paranoia -- and masked greed under the guise of providing Americans with the best care money could buy, which was great as long as a patient had money to afford the best care.

Nataline Sarkisyan's family had health insurance, and maybe that's the most appalling aspect of her story. She never should have died because she was one of the "lucky ones"; the services were in place to save her life. Her parents fully expected that when their child got sick, there would be no questions, no arguments, no delays -- there would just be the care she needed. They lived in the most powerful, wealthy and technologically-advanced country in the world after all, and they both had good jobs and did their part to contribute to society. They were living the American dream. They were part of it.

Now they're left demanding answers -- wanting to know why, in this wealthy nation, there was even a question as to whether it was fiscally prudent to save the life of their daughter.

The fact is this: It's always cheaper to refuse care, and when making money is the motive, believing any consideration other than cost to be paramount isn't just naïve -- it'll get you killed. It's simply never a good idea to trust anyone who stands to profit.

The mammoth company for which I work made sure I had the best possible medical care when I needed it -- they paid for it. I never feared coming up with the money to see a doctor which meant that I discovered the tumor in my head before it grew to the size of a golf-ball which meant that it could still be removed through a procedure done by only three hospitals in the country.

It's because of all of this that I sit here today able to tell you about it.

I'm not sure Miguel could say the same.

And I doubt his wife and children believe that my life is worth more than his.

All Apologies

2008-05-14T08:53:00.003-04:00

I realize it's been pretty slow around here lately, at least when it comes to substantive material. The truth is, I've got a lot on my plate right now -- job hunting, housekeeping (literal and figurative), oral surgery today, etc. -- so don't expect a full column until later this evening or possibly tomorrow morning.

Sorry folks, we do what we can.

Thanks,

The Management

Project Office Mayhem

2008-05-14T08:23:00.004-04:00

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: 7,000,000

(Head On)

Listening Post

2008-05-14T08:15:00.002-04:00

All the sound of early Smashing Pumpkins.

None of the arrogance of Billy Corgan.

Here's Silversun Pickups doing Little Lover's So Polite.

Master Shake

2008-05-13T07:41:00.004-04:00

It's almost unfathomable that the death toll from yesterday's massive Chinese earthquake has hit 12,000; it truly is a tragedy of historic proportions.

On the plus side though, at least China finally managed to create a vastly superior knock-off of a product they've been making in California's Silicon Valley for years.

I Rest My Case

2008-05-13T07:37:00.005-04:00

Anybody still wanna argue with me?

Come on -- I dare you.

Coupe Le Frommage

2008-05-12T09:42:00.003-04:00

Best headline ever.

Listening Post

2008-05-12T09:30:00.004-04:00

In the relatively short period of eight years, from 1996 to 2004, the Manchester duo Lamb managed to create some of the most gorgeous music in recent history. Those familiar with them likely understand exactly what I'm talking about -- just how prodigious the band's talent was when it came to writing achingly moving songs -- and probably need to read no further. For the uninitiated, however, it'll be a rare treat to be able to turn you on to something this special.

Here are Lamb's two biggest singles:

First up, from their 2001 album What Sound, this is a stunningly beautiful video, for an equally lovely song called Gabriel.

Next, no question, the most passionate song ever written, as far as I'm concerned. Read the lyrics here, and know that if you can love or be loved like this -- even for a short time -- you've seen the best that life has to offer.

Here's Gorecki.

Love, Mom

2008-05-11T16:27:00.003-04:00

Sometimes words simply won't do.

Happy Mother's Day, Jaynie.

Family Units

2008-05-09T08:37:00.008-04:00

In case you were lucky enough to miss it, the Duggar family took time out from its hectic overpopulation schedule to grace the Today show this morning, where they were treated to heaps of warm encomia on-camera (and were mercilessly joked about off-camera). For those who don't have a subscription to Procreation Weekly, the Duggars -- Jim Bob and Michelle -- are the lucky parents of 17 children. Michelle, who essentially has an assembly line that ends at her cervix, cranks out about a kid a year, and has since 1988.

It goes completely without saying that the Duggars are full-on fundamentalist Christians who live in Arkansas, don't believe in contraception, home-school their entire brood, and somehow find a way to joyfully drop the name of the Lord every fifteen seconds or so like there's a Skinner Box treat in it for them.

Think of the Flanders -- times nine.

Or maybe that polygamist cult in Texas, as dressed by the Gap.

All morning, Today hyped the appearance by America's favorite freakshow, teasing viewers with hints of a "big announcement" that mom Michelle was going to make live on the air.

If you couldn't see this one coming, you were probably home-schooled: That's right, they're having another baby -- number 18!

At least the show's producers had the cynical forethought not to tease that it was a "big surprise announcement."

I really don't have a joke here; this whole thing kind of makes its own gravy. I just needed somebody to laugh at and poke with a stick this morning and you know something, the Duggars are right -- the Lord does provide.

(Incidentally, yes, that's them in the picture)

Listening Post

2008-05-09T08:29:00.001-04:00

Perfect for a Friday -- the video that was originally banned from MTV in the U.S. because its visuals had the potential to trigger epileptic seizures.

Consider yourself warned.

Behold the manic brilliance of Gnarls Barkley's Run.

The Spell of Desperation

2008-05-08T18:34:00.011-04:00

So, Hillary Clinton has typed up an 11th hour open letter to Barack Obama, essentially demanding that he appeal to the Democratic leadership so that it might allow primary votes in the heavily Clinton-centric states of Florida and Michigan to be counted. The entire thing -- the tactic, the notion of the letter itself, the hope that Obama won't recognize a zero-sum game when he sees one -- is ridiculous on every level. But what's really eye-catching -- just laughably so -- is that Hillary apparently doesn't know that there's no such word as "untaken" and that publicly isn't spelled "publically."

If you ever needed proof that Hillary Clinton isn't all that different from the president we have right now, there it is.

Yes, I'm one of those elitists -- fuck you.

(The Huffington Post: Hillary's Hastily Penned Open Letter to Obama)

(By the way, if upon seeing the picture above, you didn't instantly make the face that Belushi makes in Animal House when Flounder's slide pops up on the screen, you're a better person than me.)

"This City Deserves a Better Class of Criminal"

2008-05-08T08:33:00.003-04:00

If you haven't seen it yet, the new trailer for The Dark Knight has finally been released.

I'm going to go change my underwear now.

(The Dark Knight, Trailer 2)

Project Office Mayhem

2008-05-08T08:17:00.003-04:00

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: 400

(Hot Dog Wash!)

The Terror Alert Level has Been Raised to Peppermint

2008-05-07T08:27:00.008-04:00

I realize I pick on the Today show quite a bit, but honestly, the thing is pretty much a four-hour cavalcade of rank stupidity.

This morning, if you made it past the fact that one of the lead stories on the show was a hard-hitting, two-and-a-half minute investigation into whether Britney Spears was reforming her image, and then past Meredith Viera cooing about how she'd been granted extra special access to Dick Cheney's home -- while keeping a straight face, mind you -- you eventually wound up being treated to a report that may have represented the final staggering triumph of hype over substance. The heavily promoted piece, fronted by the spritely Natalie Morales -- who may herself be nothing more than a CGI creation, the Jar Jar Binks of television news -- concerned the potential danger lurking in your medicine cabinet, compliments of Crest Pro Health mouthwash.

During the intro to the story, Morales put on her "concerned" face and enthused that as many as 91 million bottles of the mouthwash have been sold in the U.S. -- but that many of its users have begun taking to the internet to complain that the stuff is turning their teeth brown and altering their sense of taste. Roll tape, which featured about three minutes of one seemingly distraught customer after another -- all conspicuously members of Today's core demographic of 34-49 year old women -- lamenting their temporarily discolored choppers and demanding satisfaction. By the time Morales got around to an actual face-to-face with a doctor on the Procter & Gamble payroll, the audience was no doubt whipped into a frenzy of righteous indignation, ready to insist -- as the disgruntled customers had -- that Crest Pro Health come equipped with warning labels from here on out. That's when the story dropped the bombshell, or rather, the waterballoon: Morales sternly informed the doctor that she had literally a couple of dozen complaints that she'd pulled down off internet message boards from users of the mouthwash.

For those not good at math, let's recap: a couple of dozen complaints, out of 91 million bottles sold.

The report ended with, what else, word of a class action suit currently being filed against P&G -- a company worth millions -- by one of the pissed off customers who just happens to be a lawyer. Once again, for the obtuse: NBC essentially spent four minutes of national airtime not only lending credibility and import to the claims of these few unfortunate idiots, but putting up a big neon advertisement for any other opportunistic asshole who feels like joining the suit and getting rich by claiming victimization at the nefarious hands of an uncaring corporate giant. The Today show turned a non-story into a manufactured controversy -- the kind of thing you'd expect to find airing as a Shame-on-You piece on K-SHIT in Lubbock, Texas during sweeps -- and in doing so, probably conjured a monstrous lawsuit out of thin air and certainly perpetuated the cycle of absolute horseshit we've come to expect from today's TV news departments.

That's what should leave a bad taste in your mouth.

We Are All On Drugs

2008-05-07T07:32:00.003-04:00

Well, duh.

(LA Times: San Diego State University Fraternities Raided in Massive Drug Bust)

God Bless the U.S.A.

2008-05-07T06:47:00.006-04:00

How much do you love the American political system?

It's the only place where an obscenely wealthy quasi-oligarch like Hillary Clinton can call a black man an elitist and actually be taken seriously.

Folks, what Maureen Dowd said almost two years ago has come to fruition: Nothing short of a stake through the heart will stop Hillary from taking what's rightfully hers dammit!

(Clinton Says "Full Speed On to the White House" Despite Very Bad Night)

Listening Post

2008-05-07T05:07:00.010-04:00

If you've downloaded a copy of Dead Star Twilight and read it all the way through to the acknowledgements, you probably noticed that I thank a couple of people who play in bands I felt I needed to give a shout-out to.

Among these is a group out of Boston called The Douglas Fir, whose frontman and guitarist is an old friend of mine named Jay Walsh.

Jay and I used to play in a band together during our late teens. We became about as successful as any local band from Miami could at that time -- had a few songs on the radio; played to big audiences consistently; put together a pretty nice fan base; opened for the Chili Peppers, the Smithereens and so on -- before finally calling it quits. While I stayed in South Florida and eventually moved out to L.A., Jay headed for Boston where he put together his own band and continues making music to this day. The Douglas Fir's last album, When This Wears Off, has become a recent favorite of mine, and for the life of me I couldn't begin to put into words exactly why -- which, strangely, is one of the highest compliments I can pay it. The whole record, from start to finish, breathes with melancholic atmosphere. It's moving, late night, Raymond Chandler stuff all the way -- incredibly dramatic without being pretentious or depressing. Plenty of comparisons have been made to early Church material, which isn't surprising since Jay's been a huge Church fan since the day I met him, but I'm usually apt to draw another parallel: I remember Maynard Keenan once saying that A Perfect Circle was the feminine to Tool's masculine -- that they were two sides of the same coin. For whatever reason, The Douglas Fir has always sounded to me like the feminine counterpart to the Afghan Whigs. Both do dark, brooding material, but the Fir lacks the macho bluster and swagger of Dulli and company, and they're better off for it.

I bring all this up because Jay's just posted a new song up on the band's MySpace site -- a stunning version of The Breeders Safari -- and he's working on a new album right now.

Do yourself a favor and take a listen to The Douglas Fir, and if you like what you hear, you can pick up When This Wears Off on iTunes. They've also got a show coming up in Boston on the 22nd of this month. Those who live in the area should definitely check them out -- and if you do, ask Walsh to tell you the egg story.

(The Douglas Fir on MySpace)

Second Thug Life

2008-05-06T06:55:00.006-04:00

My name is Niko Bellic.

I arrived in this country only a few weeks ago from my native Serbia, where I had recently wrapped up a stretch in prison following the Bosnian conflict -- a war I reluctantly fought in. I came here at the urging of my cousin Roman, who enticed me with promises of the "American Dream," yet since stepping off a freighter onto the shores of the sprawling urban landscape of Liberty City, I've found not the fresh start I was hoping for but rather an uninterrupted continuation of the life I wanted so desperately to escape. In my short time moving silently -- and sometimes not-so-silently -- beneath even the underbelly of Liberty City, I've found that America is like any other place in the world: The rich and powerful stay that way at the expense of the poor and helpless, and often the only way up is to shut yourself down and be willing to obliterate whoever and whatever gets in front of you. That's what I've done -- what I'm now doing. I've run drugs and guns for the underworld; assassinated the dangerously unhinged head of the Russian mob; been double-crossed by friends, associates, dirty cops and even my girlfriend -- a seemingly normal and thoroughly whip-smart 20-something who likes comfort food, shoots a hell of a game of pool and says I'm great in bed. I've been shot at, beaten-up and marked for death. I'll survive though, because I'm willing to do whatever it takes to stay alive, protect my interests and keep one step ahead in the game that everyone seems to be playing.

And if that means I have to take your car out from under you and put two rounds in your head while doing it -- so be it.

I am Niko Bellic.

While there are undoubtedly a whole lot of people out there who have no idea what I'm talking about, the sales figures dictate that there are at least a million or so of you who do -- a million little Niko Bellics wreaking havoc on the streets of a million little Liberty Cities across the country. For the uninitiated however, I'll spell it out: Niko Bellic is the main character -- the role assumed by the player -- in Grand Theft Auto IV.

Whether you're an avid video gamer or not, it's impossible not to at least have heard of the GTA series in general and the latest installment in particular: XBOX 360 and Playstation 3 owners began falling all over themselves last Tuesday to get their hands on copies of the game, while at the same time, the usual suspects -- the humorless folk for whom GTA IV represents the latest step toward the complete meltdown of civilization as we know it -- began their cacophonous cries of foul. Late last week, Mayor Mike Bloomberg, having apprently solved every real problem in New York City, issued an official statement harshly condemning the one-man virtual crime wave of Niko Bellic, saying that it "teaches children to kill." That slightly surreal proclamation followed a demand made to the video game ratings board by Mothers Against Drunk Driving; the group is insisting that the rating on GTA IV be changed from "Mature" (which is intended to keep the game out of the hands of kids) to "Adults Only" (which would essentially ban it altogether). It's probably only a matter of time before Robert Mueller puts Niko Bellic on the FBI's Ten Most Wanted list and the U.S. Terror Threat Level is raised to blackwatch plaid.

If this all seems like far too much absurd fuss over a video game, believe me, it is. Critics of GTA IV make the argument that it isn't simply a game but something much more powerful. About this, they're right to some extent: Grand Theft Auto IV is quite honestly the most astonishing video game I've ever laid eyes on. It's more a 360 immersive experience than a third-person drive-and-shoot -- an entire virtual world so richly detailed that it leaves you giggling idiotically at how far these games have come since the days of Pong and Pac Man. I could try to explain the visceral thrill to be had just driving around exploring the vast cityscape that the designers at Rockstar Games have created, but you really do have to see it to believe it. Is the game violent? Yes, although how violent is really up to the player. Are there drugs, crime and sex? Yes, but once again, the player has more control over the progression of the game -- its storyline unfolding as a complex, non-linear web -- than you might expect. The most important question though, and the one that GTA IV's rabid detractors seem to either forget or ignore: Is the game for children? The answer, of course, is no.

Those currently crusading against Grand Theft Auto IV are operating under the dead weight of a paradigm that's long since past -- one which dictated that video games were strictly the domain of kids. They're not -- not anymore. At no point have the makers of the GTA series ever claimed that their products are meant for anyone but adult gamers. And while it would be naive to think that some kids won't find a way to play GTA IV, it's a ridiculous forfeiture of adult rights to push for the banning of the game altogether for this reason. If you follow that logic, then we should reinstate Prohibition and trash any film with a rating above PG-13. It's an adult's prerogative to be entertained however he or she sees fit, provided no laws are broken -- I'm of course referring to real world laws -- and though I have no doubt that a troubled mind submerging itself in the world of Liberty City 24/7 could lead to legitimate danger, a little bit of common sense will go a long way for 99.9% of the XBOX Nation.

Please understand, I don't readily disregard the argument that pop culture bears a certain responsibility in the molding of young minds; while I think it's ludicrous to blame Marilyn Manson for Columbine, it's equally ludicrous to assume that even the most attentive parent can always stem the constant onslaught of advertising, TV, the internet and so on. Pop culture is the wet nurse of today's youth. But once again, just because a clever kid can get his or her hands on something like GTA IV, that doesn't give anyone the right, while attempting to childproof the planet, to deprive adults of a form of entertainment intended expressly for them.

In the end, even though it's an extraordinary game -- it's still a video game we're talking about here.

Course, that new Audi A5 parked downstairs would be pretty easy to jack.

Isn't that what Niko Bellic would do?

Listening Post

2008-05-06T06:50:00.003-04:00

"With the moonlight to guide you, feel the joy of being alive. The day that you stop running is the day that you arrive. And the night that you got locked in was the time to decide. Stop chasing shadows, just enjoy the ride."

-- Morcheeba, Enjoy the Ride