Ruminations on a Hurricane

The news coverage, especially on TV, was just non-stop self-congratulatory mutual masturbation, over and over these idiots congratulating each other and telling each other how great they were, especially the studio pukes to the morons stupid enough to actually go into the hurricane zone, rather than get as far away from it as possible. On a couple of instances I heard the studio idiot talk about the field reporters "deploying" into the hurricane zone. Sorry, but as a military officer I have deployed, and it's not as a civilian weatherman into a hurricane. You media pukes need to find a new, more accurate word for what you are doing, something like, "go" or "travel" or "toward."

I read a newspaper editorial yesterday entitled "Natural Acts of Terror." What absolute bullshit, capitalizing on morbid fascination and preying on the ongoing fear of terrorism to get the ignorant to read your pointless, rambling column about how bad a hurricane is. Author, an "act of terror" is something carried out by a person. An "act" implies deliberation, forethough, and reasoned action. Read up on your terrorism definitions, and you'll see even more precise definitions of "act of terror." And you'll see that your column's title is about as oxymoronic as you can get. Your title was cheap and low and cynical, as well as flat-out wrong.

For all of the homeless, I feel empathy. I've never lost my home, but I've also never purchased coastal property. I don't make enough to purchase coastal property. And if I did, I'd have to have an awful lot of money before I'd do so, knowing that coastal flooding and hurricane destruction are an integral part of that kind of ownership. That's just simple personal responsibility. So, if you live on the Gulf of Mexico, on the US east coast and your house or your vacation home gets obliterated by a hurricane, what did you expect? You took a gamble, that your place might get missed, that you might get a 25- or 40-year run of good luck and not have your place destroyed. But eventually the odds will turn, as coastal Louisiana, Mississippi, and Alabama are finding out. If you build in a flood plain, eventually you'll get flooded. If you build on the coast, whether California, Texas, or Maine, eventually the sea will take your house away. That's a fact; it's only a matter of time. I feel for the folks who lost their houses and belongings, but no one held a gun to their heads and forced them to build on Mobile Bay.

So should the govt pay for your folly? Sorry, but no. If you build in these areas, it's on you to insure your property. It's expensive, sure, so you have the choice--the personal choice--to pay the cost or not. If you elect to do it, good on ya, and you'll be covered (more or less; don't get me started on the goddamn insurance companies). If you choose not to pay the insurance costs, then you get what you have chosen to get when the sea rises up and takes your house away.

NPR had some purportedly heartfelt bits of callers from the disaster area. One was pretty intense, a guy whose mom had died and they couldn't reach the funeral home. Implied was the possible loss of the body in the melee, mess, and destruction. That's pretty heavy, if you're tied to veneration of the dead, that is. But hey, apparently it was important to him. There was the lady who said she only had $80 to her name, with all of her money in the bank. She's clearly unaware of the FDIC, that the vaults likely were okay, and that her money--assuming that she had some in there to begin with--would still be available to her, albeit not for a couple of days yet. If all fails, she can go to a shelter and get on with life. Then there was the lady who complained so bitterly that the usual 2-hour drive to Grandma's house had ballooned to a staggering 4-hour! drive, and that Grandma was confused and despondent. Well, yeah, what in the hell do you expect when something like this happens? What did she think would be the case? Why didn't they tell her to evacuate earlier? Why didn't they go and get her on Saturday or Sunday? Then there was the call from what I heard to be some suited yuppie dipshit talking about how his son's kindergarten had gotten all disrupted and cancelled, after he just started only two days ago! Jeezus, dude, give it a rest. That is not a crisis, not even close. I heard a working parent bitching very indirectly about having to arrange for child care and such since the kindergarten wouldn't be doing that for him. And finally there was the drawlilng mom who had just figured out that their young son was stressed over the situation, and that he needed to be talked to and comforted. Duh. What has she been thinking about for the last four days, her Creative Memories photo albums, the new Audi TT? Concentrate on your kids, ass, because they are the only thing that matters, the absolute only thing that matters.

I've heard the Governor of Louisiana talk about how we should all pray, how that will make things better. I've heard other elected officials, and lots of washed-out residents talk about how God will provide, how God will make it all better, how if we just pray more and harder, then things will be better. Sorry, no. If you pray, and think about God a lot, if you really believe in all of that, then you might feel better, but that's all that's going to happen. God isn't going to take the flood waters out of downtown New Orleans. God isn't going to plop all of the seafront mansions back down on their foundations in Gulfport. God isn't going to get those adrift oil platforms back on their moorings. God isn't going to keep the price of gasoline under $3.00/gallon. In your believin' cosmology, how and why is God going to make it all better, when He's the one who created the hurricane, and then sent it right into your face? If God is up there, watching and taking care of us, why does He create hurricanes? Why does he drown old people and children? Why does he crush fathers and husbands under falling trees? Why does He electrocute people with downed power lines, cause their houses to burn to the ground in the midst of a flood, take away absolutely everything that so many thousands of people who believe in Him so fervently have spent their entire lives building and protecting? If God is going to make it all better, why did God make it all happen in the first place?

I enjoyed seeing the folks camped out on the elevated freeway overpasses. I'm hoping to see the confrontations and ugliness that'll come when the authorities move to evict these folks from these squatting locations.

I heard some state Undersecretary for Something IMportant yammering on in his hollow politico-speech about how ". . . those in need of hospitalization will be afforded the opportunity to be involved in situations where their access to medical health care can be efficiently allocated to them and their affected family members based on the relative severity of the situation in which they are experiencing medical-related issues . . ." What a load of crap, from a bureaucratic load of crap. Say this: "Those in need of hospitalization will be hospitalized in accordance with their injuries and needs." Plain, direct talk, without elaboration or apology. The truth. That's how you earn respect and deal with unpleasant situations.

I loved one reporter's simple description of what it was like inside the Superdome on Sunday and Monday after the power went out and even more folks came to stay: "rank." Man, can you imagine what that place smelled like? All of the homeless and such? Funky.

So, if the Superdome roof is shot, and the place is as trashed as it sounds from all of the, uh, visitors, where are the Saints going to lose this season? Will they become the Baton Rouge Saints for this season? The Baton Rouge Creole Shrimp? The Baton Rouge Jambalaya? The possibilities are rich and enticing, like a dark bayou evening. Whatever.

And now the 41-odd thousand folks in the Superdome will be moving west to Houston. So that's going to be one stinky location, for sure. I'd ask where the Oilers will be playing, but we all know that it's deep in the heart of Tennessee now.

And where has our Illustrious Leader been in all of this? As the news unfolds on this hurricane and its aftermath, why is no one asking why the vacationing-est President in the history of this nation only on Tuesday decided to "cut short his vacation" to return to Washington to perform his duties as the Chief Executive of this nation? Why didn't this self-styled resolute leader order his staff to take him home on Friday, or Saturday, even Sunday? I'd like to think we have some large brains operating on teh White House and National Security Council staffs, yet no one was bright enough to tell the President that a proactive, forward-thinking, prepared, and leadership-oriented senior executive would've been back at his place of duty days ahead of schedule, setting the example for the entire national government. Yet apparently no one did. Dubya must've been having too much fun riding his bike, baling hay, working the horses, to worry about the millions who were absolutely certainly going to be affected by the disaster. I'm no meteorologist, and I'm no government senior official, but I'm a retired military officer, and am smart enough to see something coming and make plans for very logically following outcomes. Yet I see no evidence of this from the White House. Only on WEd night does the idiot go on TV to talk to the nation, to be a leader. He should have done it on Saturday evening, before the disaster, before the power went out, telling people to be ready and to prepare, to evacuate, to know that he was the President and paying close attention to the situation and that he had personally mobilized the national government structure and apparatus for what certainly would be a massive relief effort. Nope, absolutely nothing of the sort, just the "local" admonitions from the New Orleans mayor, and the LA/MS/AL governors. This is a total failure of leadership, once again, but Ignorant America just can't see it.

Captured Catch-22

The following come from Joseph Heller's brilliant Catch-22, which everyone with a sense of irony and humor and mortality must read:

"Yossarian was disappointed to learn that the lives of enlisted men were only slightly more interesting than the lives of officers."

". . . there was the educated Texan from Texas who looked like someone in Technicolor and felt, patriotically, that people of means--decent folk--should be given more votes tan drifters, crminals, degenerates, atheists and indencent folk--people without means."

"There's no patriotism, that's what it is. And no matriotism, either."

Of their squadron, the 256th, Yossarian explains: "That's two to the fighting either power . . . if you're thinking of writing a symbolic poem about our squadron."

"Insanity is contagious."

". . . outside the hospital the war was still going on. Men went mad and were rewarded with medals."

". . . (Colonel Cargill) was a self-made man who owed his lack of success to nobody."

"You're American officers. The officers of no other army in teh world can make that statement. Think about it."

"Yossarian . . . had decided to live forever or die in the attempt, and his only mission each time he went up was to come down alive."

"The Pacific Ocean was a body of water surrounded on all sides by elephantiasis and other dread diseases to which, if (Doc Daneeka) ever displeased Colonel Cathcart by grounding Yossarian, he might suddenly find himself transferred."

"Group Headquarters was alarmed, for there was no telling what people might find out once they felt free to ask whatever questions they wanted to."

"'Do You know how long a year takes when it's going away?' Dunbar repeated to Clevinger. 'This long,' he snapped his fingers. 'A second ago you were stepping into college with your lungs full of fresh air. Today you're an old man . . . A half minute before that you were stepping into high school, and an unhooked brassiere was as close as you ever hoped to get to Paradise. Only a fifth of a second before that you were a small kid with a ten-week summer vacation that lasted a hundred thousand years and still ended too soon. Zip! The go rocketing by so fast . . .'"

"There was only one catcth and that was Catch-22, which specified that a concern for one's own safety in the face of dangers that were real and immediate was the process of a rational mind . . ."

"Yossarian saw (Catch-22) clearly in all its spinning reasonableness. There was an illiptical precision about its perfect pairs of parts that was graceful and shocking, like good modern art, and at times Yossarian wasn't quite sure that he saw it all, just the way he was never quite sure about good modern art . . ."

"Aarfy was a dedicated fraternity man who loved cheerleading and class reunions and did not have brains enough to be afraid."

"Hungry Joe was a throbbing, ragged mass of motile irritability. The steady ticking of a watch in a quiet room crashed like torture against his unshielded brain."

"Women killed Hungry Joe. His response to them as sexual beings was on of frenzied worship and idolatry. They were lovely, satisfying, maddening manifestations of the miraculous, instruments of pleasure too pwerful to be measured, too keen to be endured, and too exquisite to be intended for use by base, unworthy man. He could interpret their naked presence in his hands only as a cosmic oversight detsined to be rectified speedily, and he was driven always to make what carnal use of them he could in the fleeting moment or two he felt he had before Someone caught wise and whisked them away."

"Impressionalbe men inthe squadron like Dobbs and Captain Flume were so deeply disturbed by Hungry Joe's shrieking nightmares that they would begin to have nightmares of their own, and the piercing obscenities they flung into the air every night from their separate places in the squadron ran against each other in the darkness romantically like the mating calls of songbirds with filthy minds."

"Instead of being liked, (Kraft) was dead, a bleeding cincer on the barbarous pile whom nobody had heard in those last precious moments while the plane with one wing plummeted."

"McWatt was the craziest combat man of them all probably, becaus he was perfectly sane and still did not mind the war."

". . . It was a vile and muddy war, and Yossarian could have lived without it--lived forever, perhaps. Only a fraction of his countrymen would vie up their lives to win it, and it was not his ambition to be among them . . . History did not demand Yossarian's premature demise, just cie could be satisfied without it, progress did not hinge up i, victory did not dpeend on it. That men would die was a matter of necessity; which men would die, though, was a matter of circumstance, and Yossarian was willing to be the victim of anything but circumstance. But that was war. Just about all he could find in its favor was that it paid well and liberated children from the pernicious influence of their parents."

"(Clevinger) was a militant idealist who crusaded against racial bigotry by growing faint in its presence. He knew everything about literature except how to enjoy it."

"Lieutenant Scheisskopf was an ROTC graduate who was rather glad that war had broken out, since it gave him an opportunity to wear an officer's uniform every day and say 'Men' in a clipped, military voice to the bunches of kids who fell into his clutches every eight weeks on their way to the butcher's block."

"Clevinger had a mind, and Lieutenant Scheisskopf had noticed that people with minds tended to get pretty smart at times."

"To Yossarian, the idea of pennants as prizes (for marching) was absurd. NO money went with them, no class privileges. Like Olympic medals and tennis trophies, all they signified was that the owner had done something of no benefit to anyone more capably than everyone else."

"I'll tell you what justice is. Justice is a knee in the gut from the floor on the chin at night sneaky with a knife brought up down on the magazine of a battleship sandbagged underhanded in the dark without a word of warning. Garroting. That's what justice is . . . From the hip . . ."

"Major Major's father was a sober God-fearing man whose idea of a good joke was to lie about his age. He was a long-limbed farmer, a God-fearing, freedom-loving, law-abiding rugged individualist who held that federal aid to anyone but farmers was creeping socialism."

"At the state university, (Major Major) too his studies so seriously that he was suspected by the homosexuals of being a Communist and suspected by the Communists of being a homosexual."

"General Peckem's communications about cleanliness and procrastination made Major Major feel like a filthy procrastinator, and he always got hose out of the way as quickly as he could."

"Major Major had lied, and it was good. He was not really surprised that it was good, for he had observed that people who did lie were, on the whole, more resourceful and ambitious and successful than people who did not lie."

"Mudd was the unknown soldier who had never had a chance, for that was the only thing anyone ever did know about all the unknown soldiers--they never had a chance."

"Without realizing how it had come about, the combat men in the squadron discovered themselves dominated by the administrators appointed to serve them."

"It doesn't make a damned bit of difference who wins the war to someone who's dead."

"The enemy...is anybody who's going to get you killed, no matter which side he's on, and that includes Colonel Cathcart. And don't you forget that, because the longer you remember it, the longer you might live."

"(Yossarian) stepped into the briefing room with mixed emotions, uncertain how he was supposed to feel about Kraft and the others, for they had all died in the distance of a mute and secluded agony at a moment when he was up to his own ass in the same vile, excruciating dilemma of duty and damnation."

Quote This

Your main resource, along with the Oxford Dictionary of Quotations: http://www.quotationspage.com/wotd.html.

One of my all-time favorites: "We should therefore claim, in the name of tolerance, the right not to tolerate the intolerant." --Karl Popper, Austrian-born philosopher, The Open Society and Its Enemies, 1945.

"What a terrible thing it is to lose one's mind." --Vice President Dan Quayle, in a speech before the United Negro College Fund.

"I believe what I said yesterday. I don't know what I said, but I know what I think, and, well, I assume it's what I said." --Secretary of Defense Donald Rumsfeld.

"I even accept for the sake of argument that sexual orgies eliminate social tensions and ought to be encouraged." —Supreme Court Justice Antonin Scalia.

And the George Bush idiot-isms. So very, very many: http://politicalhumor.about.com/library/blbushdumbquotes.htm, or http://politicalhumor.about.com/library/blbushisms.htm, or http://politicalhumor.about.com/library/blbushismsaudio.htm. Just wait another few minutes, there'll be another quote along presently.

On the US Navy: "The Navy is the asylum for the perverse, the home of the unfortunate. Here the sons of adversity meet the children of calamity, and here the children of calamity meet the offspring of sin." --Herman Melville (1819-1891), US author, White-Jacket (1850).

"O wretched mortals! Open your eyes!" --Leonardo da Vinci.

Pressing Questions

Want to get to know your co-workers? Want to start a conversation? Want to hear alternative points of view? Want to hear ideas and thoughts that you'd have no idea were even out there? Want to get really interesting at a party? Then start asking:

General Purpose:
What's your favorite color?
What's your dream car?
What's your least favorite smell?
What is the song in your head today?
What would you do with $1 million?
Where would you most like to live?
Favorite book/author?
What was your first car?
Can you recite poetry? If so, please do.
Hamburgers or hot dogs?
What's your favorite quote?
Of all the people in the world, the person I'd most like to punch in the face is . . .
I really really really want to have . . .
Who are the brain police?
Paper or plastic?
Death or dishonor?
In the ABC Movie Of The Week about your workplace/family/friends, who will play the various roles?
Would you take a bullet for anyone? Who?

The Deeply Personal/Memories:
What is your deepest fear?
What's the most embarrassing thing you've ever done/happened to you?
What's the weirdest/grossest thing you've ever had in your mouth?
Have you ever been caught stealing?
What is best in life?
What is most important in life?
What's the coolest place you've ever visited?
Favorite fast food?
___________ never ever should go on a pizza.
What's on your mousepad?
What color are your bedsheets?
What's the greatest/most memorable thing you've ever been told?
What's the most profound thing you've ever heard or read?
What are you reading right now?
What's your computer screen saver?
Have you ever been arrested/charged/convicted? Of what?
Where's the strangest place you've ever slept/Strangest thing you've ever slept on?
What's the most depraved/nasty/randy/raucous sexual thing you've ever done?
My idea of perfect happiness is . . .
What's your favorite board game?
What is under your bed?
Favorite vegetable? Leas favorite vegetable?
What's your favorite magazine?
Chocolate or vanilla?
Ketchup or mustard?
When I was a little kid, I really wanted to be ______________.
What do you sleep with?
Thunderstorms, cool or frightening?
What's your favorite smell?

The Hypothetical:
If you were all-powerful, what would be your first order of business?
Which dead historical figure would you most like to have sex with?
Which do you choose: the ability to fly or to be invisible?
Which three dead historical figures would you like to have dinner with?
If you could ask God two questions, what would they be?
Will the earth end in fire or in ice?
When snow melts, where does the white go?
Can a sad man sing a happy song?
Is the glass half empty or half full?
Is it right to steal food for a starving family?

Film:
What's your favorite film?
What's the greatest film of all time?
What's your favorite comedy/documentary/drama/thriller/western/musical?
Who's the greatest director of all time?
Who's the greatest actor of all time?
What is the worst film/director/actor of all time?
What's your greatest/worst movie experience?
Name your ultimate double features.

Music:
What are your desert island albums?
What one genre of music do you most despise?
What's your favorite album of all time?
Who/What is the greatest act of all time?
What was your first concert?
What was your greatest concert?
What was the worst concert experience ever?
Best guitar player of them all?

Holidays:
What's the best gift you've ever received?
What is your single greatest memory of Christmas?
What's your worst holiday story?
What's your best Halloween story/costume?
What have you always wanted to dress up for Halloween but never have?

Pat Robertson, Lying, Unethical Shitbird

And the hits just keep on coming.

I hear this week that Pat Robertson has been marketing a thing called "Pat's Diet Shake." (Read more and more and more at http://www.patrobertson.com/shakeDietTips.asp, the bastard.) Seems he's been working this product for some time, and selling it on his TV shows and through his TV and other communications entities, all for non-profit, of course. So now he's taken the product commercial in his own name, making personal profit on the product for which he built the consumer base using not-for-profit, religiously oriented, tax-exempt entities.

Now I don't doubt that what he's done is legal; I'm sure Pat has a very well paid team of lawyers to keep him on the right side of the law. But on its face this is at the very least unethical, and at its worth it's lying and manipulative. He used his "flock," the gawping idiots who hang on his words and do what they're told to build up his consumer base for a product, likely intending all along to take it personally commercial once it hit critical mass. All this does is show the raw disdain he has for those to whom he purportedly ministers, those who follow him, and for whatever reason admire him. When will they wise up and see him for the duplicitous, deceptive, manipulative shitbird that he is?

And on the upside, I heard the other day that he called George Bush The Elder a "tool of Satan" a few years back. Now that's good stuff, right there, good stuff.

Moving Pictures

Consider The Fifth Element, as a perfect film. It's got everything, and just enough of it to make everyone happy. It's got action, explosions, shoot em' up, sci-fi space stuff, aliens, comedy, future history visions, a musical number, really bad guys, comical bad guys, and just the right amout of tasteful yet highly satisfying nudity. I've seen it dozens of times, and never get tired of watching it. The kids love it. Even the wife loves this film, which is pretty rare.

Another film I've seen dozens of times, more like hundreds of times now, is the Rocky Horror Picture Show. I've seen it in the theater somewhere over 60 times, although I never dressed up. I always wanted to be Eddie, but never had the courage to be it rather than dream it. Stumbled upon it the other night on cable, and stayed the entire way through to the end. Good, clean, alternative fun, and a wickedly sexy Susan Sarandon.

Loved Eurotrip. It was a teenager tits-and-poopy flick, sure, but had some other, highly original and subtle bits in there. Loved the opening titles, highly original and very entertaining from the get-go. Loved the Club Van Der Sexxxxxxx (is that the right number of "x"s?) bit, too, with the ridiculous safe word. Mike was utterly unconvincing as a German teenager, but then that really wasn't the point, right? The only part I didn't like was the female lead. Her acting and character were fine, but that beach scene in which she pulls off her shirt to reveal all of her ribs and pelvic bone jutting through her skin was nasty, bordering on disturbing. Given her unhealthy thinness, it's only logical to note that her impressive breasts have got to be fake, to be that size on a frame so clearly emaciated. She needs to put on some weight, get a little bit more healthy.

The next time you watch Ridley Scott's classic Blade Runner, keep in mind the basic question that the film explores: What is it to be human? This is the driving force behind the entire film and story. Can a human be manufactured, or is a human only organically produced from man and woman coupling? Can a real human be super-humanly strong, such as a replicant? No, not normally, but wouldn't all of us want that capability, if we could be born with it? Aren't we all capricious and vicious and bloodthirsty, like the replicants, especially when it comes to saving the lives of the ones we love, and our own lives? This is a brilliant film, in many ways, and keeping this question in your mind as you watch makes it better.

Keep your eye out in the exhilarating village attack sequence Apocalypse Now for one each R. Lee Ermey as a helo pilot.

Think about Kubrick's Dr. Strangelove. What is this strange love that America has for the bomb, for the power, for the ability to destroy all life on the planet? That's Kubrick's jumping-off point for the entire film.

Watched Hitchiker's Guide to the Galaxy the other night, and enjoyed it very much. I can see why it died such a rapid death in the USofA--too British. Too many English accents, and too many subtle references to English bureaucracy, which is no doubt lost on most of Dumbass America. Good effort by all involved, but it never had a chance in the US, not in competition with such ridiculous cinematic glop as Alien vs. Predator and The League of Extraordinary Gentlemen.

Stay the hell away from the following:
"Stepford Wives." Absolute crap. Couldn't decide if it was hard, black comedy, or some stupid slapstick, sight-gag fluff. Tried both, failed at both.

Music Rant

My top desert island album of all time is probably Days Like This by Van Morrison. Great stuff, all the way through, and I've yet to tire of it.

Runners up in the desert island album list:
Frank Zappa, The Best Band You Never Heard In Your Life
Pat Metheny Group, Pat Metheny Group
Steely Dan, Aja
The Clash, Sandinista
Jamiroquai, Funk Odyssey
Talking Heads, Fear of Music
Elvis Costello, Goodbye Cruel World
Michael Franks, The Art of Tea
Kansas, Song For America
Various artists, original movie soundtrack for Snatch
King Crimson, Beat
The The, Soul Mining
Warren Zevon, The Wind
Zappa, Sleep Dirt/Waka Jawaka
Devo, Duty Now For the Future and Are We Not Men?

The new "Jack" radio format is about as cynical and ugly a thing I've ever seen. They expect us to believe that they're cool and hip and have this shallow bad-boy attitude because they play anything and everything? First of all, they don't play anything and everything. I've yet to hear Iggy Pop on a Jack formatted station. I've yet to hear Black Flag or X or the Plasmatics. I've yet to hear soundtrack music. There is a lot they've never touched. And the lack of DJ's? Well that's because they've been replaced by a computer, and what the idiots are listening to is actually a gigantic MP3 playlist on the massive computer they've got at the stations. And the commercial I heard the other day tried to play off as cool and hip the fact that there was no DJ, as if letting them all go was the ultimate in listener revenge. Revenge against what, I'm not too sure. I'd like to hear some revenge against the advertisers. Where is the "Jork" station that fires all of the sponsors, and plays nothing but music? Oh, yeah, that's called XM, or Sirius. And that's where my subscription dollars go, and happily, too.

Rap just doesn't do it for me, not in general. There are a few that I enjoy, but I find most of them are novelty, or non-mainstream raps. I love "The Magnificent Seven" by The Clash, and loved "Rappin' Duke" when it came out way back in 1985 or thereabouts. But Eminem and the rest just aren't working for me. Sorry.

I've fallen in love with "Pina Colada Mix" by Digby Jones, available on the Cafe Del Mar Volume 8 disc. Some of the best new music I've heard in a long time, absolutely fantastic stuff.

I'm liking what I'm hearing from The Cardigans and Royksopp.

Moby has lost me. Does he play music, or sell energy drink? STick with your core competency, cue ball.

Irrational Celebrity Commentary

My take on the bling-bling fixation of so many hiphop celebrities is deep, deep self-doubt and insecurity, necessitating the gawdy display in order to prop up a public personal they know themselves to be completely hollow bullshit. The bigger and flashier the bling, the more that person lies awake at night, scared to death the public is going to find out he's a fraud.

Hilary Duff striked me as just plain bland, nothing exciting there. At least Britney Spears has got those big brown cow eyes and some serious hips working in her favor. Lindsay Lohan? Now that's a grotesquely needy, singlemindedly focused diva-bitch emerging there. Don't get in her way, that much is obvious.

Daniel Day Lewis: absolutely brilliant, but obviously so intense and into his craft as a no-shit serious artiste that having any kind of casual conversation with him would, I think, be pretty much out of the question. I think he was fantastic in Gangs of New York. What a great character, the best one in the film, and clearly the most fun to portray.

Loved Doogie Howser in Undercover Brother.

Love that Penn & Teller Bullshit show. Straight talk, and funny too. If Penn Gillette ran for public office, I'd vote for him.

I don't understand how/why celebrities come down on DWI/DUI charges. Given that most of their equivalent hourly wages average tens of thousands of dollars an hour, why can't they just spring for a cab? Or a limo?

So very, very many frighteningly thin female celebrities these days. I guess they're fashionable, although they just plain don't look healthy. It makes their fake breasts look even more grotesque and out of place.

Speaking of breasts, absolutely loved Jamie Lee Curtis in Trading Places. And Halle Berry in Swordfish. Very, very nice, thank you.

I see that overly thin, sneering smile of Paris Hilton that I'm guessing is supposed to convey some kind of sexiness, and the word that always pops instantly into my head is, "Skank."

Jennifer Anniston is stunningly attractive, but let's remember that the most important thing she's ever done with her life is play in a long-running ensemble TV sitcom.

I absolutely loved Milla Jovovich in The Fifth Element. I thought her acting was stellar, just fantastic. And I'm disappointed to see her relegated to crap like Resident Evil.

I find Angelina Jolie to be not nearly as attractive as everyone says. She looks harsh, angular, sharp and pointy. She doesn't look soft, curvy, smooth, but maybe that's the point. I'm not talking some kind of old-timey zaftig pinup ideal of female celebrity, but she's just way too far on the opposite side of the spectrum.

I'd love to have dinner with Michael McKean, Christopher Guest, and Harry Shearer. I wouldn't talk, just sit and listen. And almost certainly laugh my ass off.

I met Pat Metheny once at an autograph session at the GWU Tower Records in DC. Man, does that guy have some out-of-control hair. All I could think of was how much work it must take to keep it that way, since if it were truly out-of-control, then it long ago would have coalesced into dreads. Hair or not, that dude can play some music.

An awful lot of Will Farrell's characters are just variations on the same core character. Sure, I know that, but I still think he's hilarious. Same thing with Ben Stiller.

Best Bond babe of all time? Jill St. John as Tiffany Case, without a doubt. Runner up: Diana Rigg as Tracy Draco.

I just can't take Denise Richards seriously. I did enjoy her performance in Undercover Brother, however, a role that fit her perfectly.

I think it's become clear in the past year that the psychotic, abusive, self-loathing nutbar that Tom Sizemore played so well in Natural Born Killers is pretty much who he really is . . . and now he's blaming it all on priapism. Yeah, sure.

I just wasted an hour of my life taking in the Saturday Night Live episode with Paris Hilton in it, and I'm happy to note not the slightest shred of talent there. And apparently the SNL writing staff is in the toilet as well, given that Barbie sketch.

I thought Jamie Lee Curtis was a whitebread cardboard cutout in the first Halloween film. But then came Trading Places and Perfect, and I've been a fan ever since.

I loved Nicole Kidman in To Die For, but despised her in just about everything since, especially in Eyes Wide Shut. That, and she's got to weigh a good 25 lbs less now than she did then. And it's not attractive.

Gotta respect Dave Chappelle for walking away from a good $30 million or more in contract and endorsements for the next season of the Chappelle Show. Or just going off the deep end and not being able to handle it all.

I wonder if Howie Long dresses himself or has someone do it for him. The man can wear a suit, that's for sure.

Is it me, or does James Caan look more and more menacing as he gets older?

Speaking of old, if William Shatner--whom I genuinely enjoy and admire--has any more facial surgery, the guy is going to go Japanese.

I once met the old and classic and venerable Joe Garagiola at the airport in St. Louis. And he was probably one of the most rude and arrogant sonsofbitches that I've ever met in my life. Good riddance to ya, ya prick.

On the contrary, I was at a school event this past spring, and Brian Mitchell of the Washington Redskins was there. He signed every autograph and took every photo asked of him, of every single kid. Stand-up guy, and at least for that evening, a true role model. Good on ya.

Ever read about Dan Aykroyd's personal beliefs? Man, that guy is Out There.

Speaking of personal beliefs, I have to wonder what Mel Gibson is going to cram down our throats next. Or John Travolta, although the returns on Battlefield Earth should have made this pretty clear to him.

I was an extra in Escape From New York. Shot in a ratty part of downtown St. Louis, way back when, when I was in high school. Keep your eye on the sewer denizens rising through the manhole in the scene where Kurt Russell finds the presidential escape pod.

I've seen the Rocky Horror Picture Show at least 50 times in the theater, and dozens more on video. Watched it on cable last night, and found myself again wishing for the days when I could dress up like Eddie and head down to the midnight movie and just cut loose.

TV reruns of The Blues Brothers just plain suck--the film is not the same without the swearing. Same thing for Animal House.

Pat Robertson's Disingenuous, Hollow, Insincere Apology

And the beaming man of God realizes the error of his ways, and poots forth a deep, heartfelt apology for stating unequivovally that the Government of the United States of America should kill the president of Venezuela.

Yeah, right.

First Pat says he never uttered the word "assassination." He tempered this by offering the much less offensive, much less inflammatory, much more diplomatic, "I said our Special Forces should 'take him out,' and 'take him out' can be a number of things, including kidnapping." Well, that's so much better, so much more clear, and clearly much less direct than what he did in fact say earlier. Sorry, Pat, but you did say "assassinate," and there is no arguing that. Maybe you're just too old to remember. Maybe you're just too old to keep adequate and responsible control over the neural linkage between your brain and your mouth--you know, that might just be the kind of excuse you're looking for.

But then Pat did admit that he said "assassination," but that it was immediately mitigated as well, by implying that it was not really that bad, because he'd just ad-libbed that portion of the 700 Club broadcast. Kind of like how he ad-libbed his mid-September 2001 concurrence with fellow rabid Christian soldier Jerry Falwell that the US deserved the 9/11 attacks because of feminism, tolerance of homosexuality, and liberalism (with consequent hollow apology). So it's excusable to say these kinds of things extemporaneously, without thinking, while by implication it's not okay to actually put them into a script and then speak the prepared words. I guess that's the message. So by Pat's definition, anything anyone says off the cuff is excusable, since it's not rehearsed and prepared ahead of time. So much for taking personal responsibility for one's actions and speech, eh?

But Pat did then utter the word "apologize," to his credit, but then tempered it immediately as well, in the same sentence, conditioning it by saying, "I spoke in frustration that we should accommodate the man who thinks the U.S. is out to kill him." So what the hell does this mean? Is Pat frustrated that Chavez is saying the US is out to kill him? Or is he frustrated at Chavez's politics, a specific action or statement by Chavez? None of this is clear given this (likely intentionally) awful and confusing statement, but it certainly calls into question the sincerity of Pat's apology. A true apology is direct and unequivocal. It stands on its own, and is clear to all who read or hear it. I'm not seeing that hear, not even the whisper of an attempt to produce something of that caliber.

Pat went on to quote and cite a Protestant theologian, murdered by the Nazis for conspiring to kill Hitler, referring indirectly to a Christian's unstated duty to recognize threats and act decisively to counter them. The core of this argument is sound, and I agree completely that clear threats must be acted upon quickly and by anyone in the power to do so, but I don't think Chavez's political and populist antics in northern South America and the Caribbean equate to an immediate threat to the national security of the USofA, or equate to Hitler and the Nazis. This further erodes Pat's apology.

So is Pat sorry? No, of course he's not. He spoke his call for Chavez's death out loud, and he did it on purpose. He put it out there, directly into the sponge-like brains of his gawping 1 million-odd 700 Club viewers, and that was precisely his intent. He put it out there on TV, knowing it would be recorded and replayed, knowing the publicity it would generate. He put it out there, knowing that he was planting a seed, sacrificing himself temporarily in the court of public opinion as another persecuted Christian putting out the one and true word of truth. He put it out there, knowing the message of hate and intolerance would continue after he set it free, and anticipating the (hollow) apology he would have to make. Hey, if only 1% of them 700 Clubbers write a letter to their Senator, congressman, or the President, that's 10,000 letters. If only 1% of them send $20 apiece to the 700 Club, that's a tidy $200,000. So, it pays off actually, in many ways.

And this yutz ran for President. And had hundreds of thousands of people supporting him, clamoring to vote for him.

But wait, who's running the country now? Oh yeah, right. Peas in a pod, and all that.

Fidel Castro's fascinating reply was, "I think only God can punish crimes of such magnitude." Okay, that's diplomatic, restrained, and yet at the same points a very wrinkled old commie finger at Pat's ridiculous ruminations. But wait a minute. How is it the second greatest living commie (second only to Kim "I'm So Rone-Ry" Jong Il, North Korea's Dear, Dear Leader) is citing God as an ultimate arbiter of right and wrong, and imposer of attendant punishment? Whatever happened to Marx and his "Religion is the opiate of the masses" spiel? Is Fidel getting all mushy and sentimental now, maybe worried now that his time is nigh, hedging his bets for all eternity. Very interesting that the Cuban super-commie would cite God in a rejoinder of this nature, other than to shove God right back in Pat's smirking face.

Wendy

I was in the middle of my summer vacation, and checking my work email told me I was to get a new office. So, took a day in the middle of the week to drive all the way back into town, box up my stuff, move it on down, and inform the furniture crews where to place my desk. It was no big deal getting a new office, moving down five floors. Hey, I had a corner office now, and a window, too. Wonderful view of the pool for the two condo towers located all of 40 yards across from me.

Then came the first day at work. I got on down and hooked up the PC, got it going, got some XM online music coming in. Got the folders and papers in order, started on the bookshelf. After an hour I sat to check email, and absentmindedly looking up right over the shoulder of my monitor, was shown the true nature of my new office: Wendy.

Of course, I don't know her name, and don't want to, not ever. I'm looking through a window or two, so it was "Window . . . Winder . . . Windy . . . Wendy." And that was that. That came very quickly.

Her apartment is a floor below, and the cosmic confluences of the angles couldn't be more perfect. She keeps her apartment dark, so she likely figures no one is able to look in on her, because the blinds/curtains are never drawn, not ever. But what she doesn't think of is the fact that the lights in her bathroom are very bright, and that her vanity mirror reflects directly out the balcony door, and straight into my office. One office to the left or right, yout can't see a thing (I've checked). But from my office, specifically, from my desk, it's all there to see, literally.

She keeps her living room completely dark, so must think that no one can see inside. But she keeps her bathroom door wide open at all times, and the glaring lights of the vanity illuminated the bathroom up spectacularly, allowing me to see directly through the dark living room and right into the bathroom.

Even better, the angle is such that I see her backside as she stands at the large vanity mirror, and also see her front reflection. Again, the angles are absolutely perfect. The slightest change in the x, y, or z, and there'd be nothing to see.

So, every single morning between 7:30 and 8:30, I'm treated to Wendy. It's a powerful motivator to get to work early, and on time.

Have I got binoculars? Of course I do. I've got some wicked-powerful zoom binos that are really great, but with any zoom, the closer you go in the more light you need. So I've got to strike a balance between being close and having enough illumination to see. Let's say that reading the titles of her magazines and the words on her t-shirts is a piece of cake.

First she gets up. She wears panties and oversized t-shirts. She brushes her teeth first, and often it's some kind of other treatment, likely a whitener. Lots of time on the teeth, brushing for at least ten minutes. And usually then flosing, too. Then it's shower time. Off with the clothes, and then right into the shower. The real show is after the shower, as she doesn't dress at all, usually. That's her prep time. She's got wonderfully long, dark hair, so there is a lot of time spent on the hair, always the hair. There's lot of flipping, a pseudo-heavy metal-head-banging sort of action which I can only guess fluffs out the hair while at the same time using physics in a kind of centrifugal drying action. Then the hair dryer, and the brush. Lots of time with the hair.

Then the make-up. I'm happy to see that she doesn't put too much on. Mostly the eyes, and I can't recall seeing lipstick. The best part is that once the hair is done, she's very attractive, with very impressive hair. It's filled out very nicely, with great body, so as she does the rest of her morning prep in the nude, she looks really quite nice with no clothes and just the hair. A very impressive sight.

I'm happy to report that her breasts are just about the right size, just a little bit on the big size of standard. And natural, too. I'd love to congratulate her on her completely natural breasts, since my office also overlooks the condo pool, and the fake tits I see down there every summer day are an obvious and constant turn-off.

As for the Magic V, it's only glimpses. This is the deep irony here. The vanity height is such that it's right at the top of the bikini line, so that as she stands at the vanity there's nothing to see. She usually stands at a distance where there is no way to see. When she's moving, it's usually into or out of the dark living room or bedroom, so it's mere glimpses in the dark, so hard to get a good look. I'm hoping that she'l have some kind of centerfold-sexy trim or Brazilian, a wicked sexual landing strip, but I'm also realistic enough to know that's highly unlikely. I still keep looking, patiently, to see what develops.

It's kind of a sweet and sour thing, too. Many mornings I've watched her shave. She pulls out her little buzzing white plastic shaver and shaves just about like any man does, doing her upper lip, her neck, her chin, sideburns. She's dark, so it's a fact of life. I've seen her shave her nipples too, which is both kind of erotic and at the same time kind of funky. Furry dark nipples, now that's kind of a turn-off, sure, but then again, she's in there doing something about it, so good on her.

As much time as she spends on the shaving, I'd think that she'd really have a thing for shaving her whosis. But then again, if she were to do that, I'd also figure that she'd be doing it over the toilet, or in the shower, given the furry fallout. I keep hoping to see her bend on down and do it at the vanity, but it's unlikely.

Nope, I've never seen a boyfriend, and it's clear that she lives alone.

I've thought about what exactly is the attraction here, why this is so enjoyable. If I want to see nudity, I get that at home easily enough from the wife. There's plenty of X-rated videos, real-live old school porn, all kinds of women of all shapes, sizes, colors and flavors doing a helluva lot more than taking a shower and getting ready to go to work. So what is it about watching a 20-something naked in her dinky apartment that is so alluring and enjoyable? I guess it's the pure voyeurism, watching someone who does not know they're being watched, where anything can happen because the watched isn't aware. So she's shaving her nipples; would she do that in the presence of a boyfriend? Probably not, at least in my experience. In front of a long-term boyfriend, maybe, and int he presence of a husband, yeah, most definitely. But it's just the little things to observe, to look into a totally private realm and just see how it plays out.

It's little things, like when she puts on her perfume. I can't help but think of Jackie O as she sprays a little cloud of perfume into the bathroom air and then glides through it, arching herself backward just a little, both of her arms out, fingers spread in a perfectly stereotypical deb-diva pose as she drifts into her miasma of personal scent. It's priceless.

So is this wrong? This is another thing I grapple with. Technically, I guess it's peeping. But then again, I'm not creeping around and looking for this. I had absolutely no say in the selection of my new office; I simply reported to the room to which I was assigned. So all I'm doing is sitting at my assigned desk in my assigned room at my place of work, doing my job. And looking out the window. And this is directly out the window, right straight across all of 40 yards of courtyard, right into her apartment. And she never closes the blinds. This is a two-building complex, and there are dozens, if not hundreds of other apartments, with windows going right on up to 14 floors. And there's nothing else to see in them because those folks are bright enough to keep their blinds shut when they don't want to be viewed. Yeah, I guess the binoculars bit takes this just a little too far.

No, I've never seen her do a sexy dance and a rabidly filthy strip-tease and/or masturbate in the apartment, nor do I ever expect it. But it sure would be great, right? Being a guy, there's that part of my brain that whispers that it's always a possibility, and it is, but a very, very remote one, ridiculously remote. But there's always hope.

Another aspect of this is that I've noticed that it's not really that sexually thrilling. Not once have I ever gotten aroused watching her. There's no closing the door, dropping my pants and having a morning JO to this--it's just not that kind of event. I think the allure is watching the unknown, me not knowing what will happen, and her completely unaware that she's being watched.

But then I ask myself if she truly is unaware that she's being watched. She has never once closed her curtains, to the living room, that is. Her bedroom blinds are always closed, 24/7. It's been 3 months now, and I've never seen them open, nor have I seen the living room drapes pulled shut. So, she's aware the blinds are there, and knows how to use them. I guess she just figures that no one is looking, or that she's deep enough inside her apartment in the dark to be of notice to anyone. I've seen nothing that would indicate she's putting on an intentional show.

So, I'll just keep watching, continuing to monitor the situation. It's fun, mostly harmless as far as I can tell, and something to talk about with the guys.

Ignorant America

What is Ignorant America (IA)?

IA is what will put and end to the world domination of the United States of America. IA is the creeping ignorance and mediocrity and lack of initiative that is pulling us down, rapidly. IA is the lack of knowledge, and the apathy about acquiring more. IA is being happy with a double-wide or a shitty condo, with the trampoline out back and a PT Cruiser in the driveway. IA is accepting the mediocre and the bland, and not demanding the new, different, and interesting. IA is the lack of drive and ambition that is putting us farther and farther down on the list of educated countries, leaders in industry and economics and wealth. Ignorant America is the rot on the inside that will doom us all, in just a mere decades to come.

Here's a stellar example of IA on the hoof: I took a trip with my delightful wife last July to St. Lucia. First hint: this is an independent, sovereign nation. Got it's freedom and everything, although not too long ago. Still finding their way and all of that. But still, as said so well in The Falcon and the Snowman, this is not America. We land, and the wife and I already have our passports out and ready. The IA couple in front of us, all of about 25, him with the dumbass tattoos on both shoulders in a faded, beachy wife-beater and her with her $100 French nails and enough make-up to paint the lines on an NFL field, can't figure out why the "cute little black folks" (their words) want to see their identification and passports. No clue whatsoever that they'd left their own nation and landed in another. No sense of what it means to go abroad, even if it is the Caribbean.

All of five days later, we're on a touristy island shopping trip, and Jersey Couple is along for the ride. He's wearing his prized West Orange Dickheads (or whatever) softball jersey, along with his gold chains, his backwards baseball cap, his cutoffs, his gold rings, and his attitude. His lovely, lovely bride, in her 4" heeled slingback pumps, too-tight capris and again with the French manicure and a horrific amount of makeup holding up the 7 pounds of hair spray, has a Louis Vuitton handbag big enough to hold a microwave inside. He's looking for some places to get some local rum; she wants to find some "local color artwork." They're nothing but overly audible remarks and comments about everythign they see out the window of the van, clearly never before outside of the country, let alone outside of New Jersey. Absolutely moronic comments about the "horrible poverty," the St. Lucians' "shitty housing," their "beater cars," their "beater buses," their "shitty roads," their (use your favorite Jersey accent) "obviously inadequate social structure." All of this clearly audible to both the driver and our guide. Yeah there, Angie and Angelo, you're just the ones to make crucial observations on St. Lucia's economic and infrastructure status. Remember the hurricane a few years back? Remember that it went right over the top of the island, and destroyed something like 80% of the structures there? Remember reading that in the news? No? Yeah, that figures.

So we stop, and Angelo just strides up to the local handicrafts vendor, opening his wallet like some kind of Walking Tall bigshot, and announces, "So, whattaya folks use for money around here," as he lifts a wad of US twenties out of his wallet. Moron.

We put up with this crap all day, with these stellar representatives of American society and culture. No wonder there are people out there who want to see America fail, and who take active roles in getting us there.

So you've been convinced, you've seen the light. You ask, "How can I, an Ignorant American, remedy my situation?" Well, friend, there's an easy way. Here are a few suggestions:
Read a book, fiction or non-fiction. You pick the subject, the length, the format. If you read one, then choose another. You may just develop a habit. You might find there are some subjects and authors you enjoy more than others. Great, pursue those, and those that are alike. You'll find that your vocabulary increases, that you learn things you didn't know before, that you actually think a little bit more. Your mind works out, you are alert, you become inquisitive, you start to look forward to reading somethign new.

Okay, a book isn't quite you yet, but there's nothing wrong with a magazine.

Ignorant America reads the Weekly World News, the New York Post, the National Enquirer, and all of the similar vacuous crap.

IA keeps reality TV in the black.

IA thinks Stuckey's and the IHOP are great places to eat.

IA thinks the taquito is a culinary breakthrough.

IA has at least one faux Indian dream catcher hanging from their rearview mirror.

IA knows all about Sega, X Box, GameBoy, Playstation yaddd yadda yadda.

IA leads the way in adult-onset diabetes.

IA thinks it's EXTREME!

IA keeps professional wrestling in business.

IA pays $160 for a manicure and French nails, and doesn't have enough money for school supplies for the kids.

IA has a wallet so stuffed with crap that it won't close.

IA thinks that People magazine and Access Hollywood are news sources.

IA buys Paris Hilton perfume and accessories.

IA dresses like J Lo.

IA thinks the world and the govt and society at large owe them something.

IA doesn't think it should have to pay taxes.

IA puts its dumbass 9/11 stickers right next to its anti-abortion and GW Bush stickers, but won't volunteer for service in the military, police, fire department, teaching, EMS.

IA peppers its speech with oxymoronic references to God and Jesus.

IA thinks that having a cell phone glued to your ear means you're important, that you're somebody. And that having a little ridiculous headpiece means you're even more crucial.

IA thinks Chrysler-Plymouth products are the pinnacle of American engineering.

IA has no idea what's going on around them.

IA is afraid to go abroad.

IA is lied to by Bill Clinton, and shrugs its shoulders because the economy is just gunning along and everyone is getting a new cellphone or PDA.

IA leaves the turn signal on, and doesn't notice it at all.

IA thinks Vegas or Disney World is the be-all-end-all vacation.

Ignorant America is homophobic.

IA is not observant, and couldn't make anything of their observations even if they were.

Ignorant America spends its discretionary income on beer and cigarettes rather than college or even trade school tuition.

Ignorant American thinks Chrysler is putting out quality merchandise.

IA goes on vacation and only once they get home do they report their missing child, report the commission of a crime against themselves or someone they know, file an insurance claim, that kind of thing.

IA is not interested in learning any words or phrases of a foreign language.

IA can't find its own goddamn home state on a map.

IA spends more each week on lottery tickets than it does on books.

IA is happy to think all its learnin' days were left behind once high school ended.

IA can't read or perform to grade level, but still opposes any tax increases that would fund the schools' attempts to educate their TV-gawping kids.

IA thinks George Bush is a good leader because he insulated himself from all disagreeable contact and ignores any advice that contradicts with his own.

IA believes what it's told because they're too goddamn lazy and dumb to read about it, to learn about it themselves.

IA listens to what the radio tells it to listen to.

IA makes Everybody Loves Raymond a beloved icon of American communications heritage.

IA has no true concept of vehicular right of way.

IA puts Lance Armstrong and Oprah on the list of the 100 greatest Americans, but not Robert Fulton, Robert Oppenheimer, Frank Lloyd Wright, or even Woodrow Wilson.

Ignorant America pays $800 for spinners on their 1993 Chrysler minivan, with the long-oxidized paint flaking off to reveal the canary yellow plastic bumper beneath.

IA knows all of the names of the Power Puff Girls, and sets their Tivo for Extreme Makeover: Home Edition.

IA cares what a celebrity names their baby.

IA thinks doesn't even notice when CSI shows a knife or a bullet penetrating a body in horrificly graphic detail, and in slow motion no less, but screams like pig-stuck over two human beings expressing their love and devotion for one another in a physical manner, without clothing.

IA wears spandex pants, even when morbidly obese.

IA comes bounding into the elevator or onto the bus without even thinking of letting the passengers inside out or off.

IA makes and keeps Paris Hilton a star.

IA is having Hot Pockets and Pizza Rolls for dinner.

IA is not being able to name a famous American architect.

IA is TV-centric.

IA thinks they'll win when they go to Vegas or Atlantic City.

IA speeds down residential streets.

IA puts glasspacks on their 1997 Honda Accord sedan.

IA thinks Steppenwolf is just the name of a band.

IA knows all the words to the latest Budweiser commercials.

IA watches the Super Bowl just for the commercials.

IA can't name their nearest national park.

IA have never been more than two states away, and are afraid to go that far.

IA doesn't know a word of a foreign language, other than the plot twist words in Spanish on "Dangerous Housewives," and thinks they're worldly when they use one of the words in public.

IA has never been to a Morroccan or Indonesian or Afghan restaurant.

IA thinks La Choy is good Chinese eats.

IA thinks shells n' cheez is a real step up the social ladder (thank you, Onion).

IA doesn't know that The Onion is a joke.

IA is just now finding out about Moby.

IA doesn't seek out advice, and doesn't listen to it even when it arrives unbidden.

IA has no idea that chocolate will kill their dog.

IA smokes in bed.

IA sues McDonald's over spilling hot coffee on themselves. IA decides to punish McDonald's for the carelessness of a coffee-drinking moron. (and I don't even like McDonald's, not one bit)

IA sues gun makers for gun murders, and wins with an IA jury.

IA sues cigarette makers for their cancer instead of blaming their years of self-destructive behavior.

IA doesn't care when Bill Clinton looks them right in the eye and lies to their face, then admits it and refuses to do the right and honorable thing by resigning to save his own reputation and that of his elected office. IA doesn't think it's a big deal.

IA thinks George W. Bush is just a good ol' boy.

IA is on the cell phone, having an animated conversation at 5:20 in the a.m., standing at the bus stop.

IA has the cell phone glued to its head in tight, tense, angry rush-hour traffic.

IA trades in perfectly good equipment because something new and more shiny is being offered.

IA shuns public broadcasting, but hasn't seen or heard any of it since they left Sesame Street behind.

IA men wear gold chains, and have highlights in their hair.

IA has tattoos of roses growing within barbed wire.

IA has a Skoal ring in a back pocket.

IA doesn't feel the need to follow instructions.

IA thinks it knows better than everyone else.

Pat Robertson, Smiling, Genial, Murderous Man of God

He smiles like a benevolent grandfather, the silver hair, the manicure, the expensive suit, and all you can do is feel great as he beams down at you, his eyes twinkling and his teeth showing just a little bit, a careworn visage of wisdom and quiet, helpful guidance. So very, very paternal. So very, very concerned. And caring. And solemn in his unshakable righteousness.

And then he turns genially to international politics, the southern hemisphere, US foreign policy with Venezuela, and specifically to their preening, headstrong, populist President Hugo Chavez. He smiles sagely, reeling in the open-mouthed, staring sheep of TV-addled America, rises up in his wrath-encrusted indignation, opens his black mouth and out spits, "...You know, I don't know about this doctrine of assassination, but if (Chavez) thinks we're trying to assassinate him, I think that we really ought to go ahead and do it . . . It's a whole lot chpeaer than starting a war . . . and I don't think any oil shipments will stop . . . We have the ability to take him out, and I think the time has come that we exercise that ability . . . We don't need another $200 billion war to get rid of one, you know, strong-arm dictator . . . It's a whole lot easier to have some of the covert operatives do the job and then get it over with . . ."

So this is a man of God? This is the guy who founded the Christian Coalition, after all, an organization with the stated mission of: representing pro-family points of view (not further defined); speaking out (on undefined issues); training leaders (on undefined issues); informing pro-family voters about (undefined) "timely issues and legislation;" protesting "anti-Christian bigotry," and; defending the rights of people of faith. Okay, let's back up a tad. Nowhere in there is God really mentioned, other than fighting that anti-Christian bigotry bit. So, at its very core, this is a Christian organization, albeit an openly and militantly political Christian organization. So where are those alleged core Christian values of peace, love, respect for others, tolerance, valuing life? I think the Ten Commandments stated something to the effect of "Thou shalt not kill," right? So where exactly is Pat coming from?

How does the raging little idiot Hugo Chavez, noisily touting himself and his teetering populist political surge threaten the United States of America and the Christian Coalition's view of the world order? Robertson didn't really elaborate on that, other than to mention that Venezuela under Chavez will become a "launching pad for communist infiltration and Muslim extremism." Okay, let's break that down a bit.

"Communist infiltration?" Really, Pat, the commies are going to infiltrate the U-nited States and take us all down, rotting us from the inside? Hey, it's 2005 now. Communism died in 1989; I know, I was a commissioned officer in the US Army, in the field with my M1A1 Abrams main battle tank battalion, loaded out and ready, all of 10 km from the Czech border in November 1989, wondering what the next two weeks would hold. We won the Cold War, the wall came down, and lots of people were happy. The Iron Curtain fell, the Soviet Bloc dissolved, and now the former Soviet satellites are stepping all over each other to join NATO and the EU. We won that one, pretty convincingly, and at the same time traditional Marxist-Leninist communism as a basis for national political leadership and social organization was proven to be a complete and total failure.

So now it's commies from Venezuela? I think that's a reference to Chavez's relationship with Castro, right? Yeah, well Castro has got his ridiculous, failed little island republic down there in the Caribbean, and they all can't wait for him to die so they can have a country that works again. Chavez has tied himself with Castro because it gets him press. It gets him attention, and it builds and solidifies his outsider image with his domestic constituency. If anyone should know, Pat, it's all about publicity (isn't that just what you're doing here, huh?). Chavez is not a communist; if you took the time to learn anything about the situation in Venezuela, you'd know that. And if you studied it yourself, rather than read the one-paragraph summaries your toadying staffers shove at you, you'd realize to your own embarrassment that your remarks about communism reflect your own ignorance. But wait, I'll be that ignorance is self-imposed, in order to stay on message, in order to bend the communication to the theme. Kind of like the way George W. Bush conducts business.

And the bit about Muslim extremism. Now, this is a very fascinating little bit. So much going on in such a short space. First, there is the nake fear-mongering in this admission. You don't like him, so tie him to al Qaida and UBL, make him a lackey of the Global Jihad Conspiracy, and you've got the immediate attention of Ignorant America, and he's bad. Again, just like Bush and his lackeys, everything has to do with international terrorism, and the easiest way to immediately create support, or more correctly to immediately create hatred and intolerance, is to link it to 9/11 and Muslim extremism. It's not deft, it's not creative, it's not even original, but it works, right? So, Chavez=Osama bin Laden. Okay, got it. That's more than enough reason to

Second, are you aware that Venezuela is overall a Christian nation? They're over 96% Roman Catholic--no, wait, that's part of the problem with you Christian Coalition folks, too, isn't it? But that's for another time . . . They are a federal republic, a secular state. Of course, that in itself if insult and threat enough to you and your type, but not a cause for true national security concern.

So, Muslim extremism originating from an overwhelmingly Christian nation? You've provided no information to back that up, no supporting evidence. Illegal immigration, trafficking in persons? Yeah, maybe, but that's more of a border-state problem. Try Mexico if you're looking to link Muslim extremist exportation or infiltration, that's a better, more accurate target.

And of course, just the mention of Islam to the open-mouthed gapers at the 700 Club broadcast is enough to generate movement. For you, Islam is an enemy, The Other, what with their unshaved faces, long hair, different language, culture, customs, just so very, very foreign, right? And they're unbelievers, deniers of the principal Christian tenets. They acknowledge and even teach many Christian themes and issues, but diverge on the biggies, right? So that makes them heretics, unbelievers, followers of a false God, and rightly they should be banished and despised and actively thwarted at every turn. They have no claim to legitimacy, so have no right to be tolerated. In fact, it can be easily argued, and just as easily justified biblically that they have as heretics earned active opposition, right down to direct action. That means war, right? So, why not attack them and drive them out, put them down, end their lives? That was what the Crusades were about, right? That's that Iraq's about, right? No, wait, Iraq is about personal vengeance and US oil dependency--I keep forgetting.

And Venezuela under Chavez is actively supportin Muslim extremism? Is this a government effort, a program of the state? If so, why haven't I heard about it, that Chavez is using his administration to support Muslim extremism? And how does he do this again, since he was after all, popularly elected, in an overwhelmingly Christian nation? And aren't extremist Islam and Marxist-Leninist communism mutually exclusive? I can't recall any states, organizations, or groups that have ever been rabidly Muslim and also hard-core commies. The two don't mix well. Just ask the Indonesians, particularly those on Java, Sumatra, and Bali, who got to watch conservative Islam and Red-Chinese communism go at it in 1965-66. The result was a loss for the commies and other assorted "godless," to the tune of about 800,000 dead, likely more.

So, Pat has put the communist infiltration and Muslim extremism together syntactically and conceptually, again demonstrating fundamental weakness in his understanding of either communism or conservative/extremist Islam, and his simple inability to construct a cohesive, logical argument.

And then there's the comment about oil shipments. What does a God-fearing Christian care about oil shipments to the USofA? Is this a nod to Big Oil, the stalwart supporters of the idiot cabal running our nation, those whom arguably have benefitted the most from Bush/Republican "leadership?" Why the comment about oil? What does Pat Robertson care about oil? What would an examination of his stock holdings reveal?

And then there's the bit about a "$200 billion war." I love this. What is Pat saying? Is that a hint of criticism in the air? Against Afghanistan or Iraq? Either? Both? So, war is okay, but spending a lot on it is not? Hell, I'm pretty much with him on this matter, at least on his economic arguments. If we could've changed the tide in Iraq by just offing Saddam a few years back, why didn't we just pay the Israelis to do what they do best? But, you'd better watch out, Pat, throwing out what looks like criticism of the war, and by extension Bush/Republican "leadership." Next thing you know, you'll find your patriotism and loyalty to the nation in question.

So in conclusion, thanks, smiling and paternal Pat Robertson, for giving us the real 411 on Chavez and his Muslimo-communistical conspiracy with Castro and UBL for Caribbean subjugation, ultimately leading to the most critical US national security threat since the Cuban Missile Crisis. Without your foresight and analytical insights we'd never had seen it coming. And what better way to deal with the threat than to simply kill the leader? That's always worked, right? It worked so well in the times of the Roman Caesars (Caesar Chavez? Wasn't he the grape guy, or was he the guy who played The Joker on the original Batman--hey, Ignorant America gets so easily confused by all of these strange, foreign, suspicious and threatening names, with their hissing "s" sounds and all of those subversive "z" and "v" sounds). Killing the leader, especially a popular one, always works out, right? Yeah, just ask People Power Philippines about how killing Aquino put them in their place.

What an ignorant, knee-jerk, escapist statement to make, Pat. Your alternative is the coward's way out, the choice of the despot. Your offer is that of the unquestionably strong over the weak. Your answer is that of the desperate, desparate to regain lost power, control, and credibility, desparate to restore perceived lost prestige and reputation, desparate to instill pride and direction to a constituent rabble (Ignorant America) who are unfocused, uninformed, and out of touch with your and Bush's grand global imperatives. A leader who lashes out quickly and violently at a threat, whether large or small, is not a leader. A leader, especially a historically powerful and respected one, takes time to explore options and craft a solid plan, a long-term strategic plan which shows respect for both the enemy and those who are being led. Your ridiculous path, Pat, shows none of this. Your idea reflects cowardice, and contempt for those with whom you interact. It shows disdain for all others, and expected deference from others rather than a desire to earn it. It shows no leadership, no vision, and holds no future.

I just love this photo. It looks doctored to me, but it sure says a lot, even if doctored.

Now that being said, I'm all for state-sanctioned murder when the time and target are right. Osama bin Laden, yeah, that guy needs to be shot in the face, as so Zawahiri, Zarqawi, Milosevic, Mladic, Charles Taylor, and others. But this is not the right option in this case, not with Chavez. And if you had thought for more than two minutes about this issue before you opened your big, uninformed, agenda-forging, political, and influential mouth, Pat Robertson, you probably would have come to the same conclusion.

To Touch Greatness?

I'd love to get to know a few notables/celebrities, the few that I actually respect and enjoy. Folks like Christopher Guest, Michael McKean, Harry Shearer, Jason Statham, Woddy Harrelson, Jennifer Tilly, Sigourney Weaver, Jill St. John, Jamie Lee Curtis, Peter O'Toole, Stephen Hawking, Nelson Mandela, Jimmy Carter, Lance Armstrong, the Monty Python guys, and a few others. In the old game of "who'd you like to have dinner with?" these are the folks that are at the top, at least the ones who are alive.

Of course, how do I even begin to form this list? It's formed exclusively by what the media tells me of these people. That's all I know. Any one of these folks could be an absolute raging ass, a fool, an ignorant dope, a drunk, an addict, a psychopathic tyrant, or just plain boring. There's no way I'd ever know this, unless I got seriously into any of these folks, got obsessive, took the stalker path and got weird. So, all I know is what the papers and TV feeds me, that's how I form my impression of these folks, from the work that I've seen and enjoy and respect, and from what the press tells me of their private lives. I could be wrong about a number of these folks, or I could be exactly on the money. They could be great guys and gals, or they could be Grade A shits; I'd never know. No, more correctly, I'll never know.

But say I'm actually given this chance, a win in a radio contest, a chance meeting in an elevator? Then it comes down to: what exactly are you going to say? What unique thing are you going to communicate that they haven't ever heard before? Are you going to look down, scuff your shoe, and mumble, "Uh, I really think you're talented and great, and I really enjoy your work?" Is that what you're going to say? As true as it might be, that's what you're going to offer? You may be sincere and honest, but that's not a very good intro. it doesn't stand out, and they've heard it a zillion times before.

The flip side again would be the nutso stalker approach, the detailed question about a role or a project, or about amazingly minute details of their personal lives that you've gleaned from your obsessive searching and digging on them. Or the nutbar gift of a hand-made sculpture of them as a Greek god/goddess, made out of hardened toothpaste. Or some othe well-meaning and truly heartflet gift (but heartfelt only for you, since you are a complete and total stranger, after all). Yeah, that's just the kind of thing that will endear your favorite celebrity to you immediately, freaky obsession.

And given all of this, assuming opportunity and access, and just the amount of time it might take to actually engage and converse with this person, what would be the basis for a relationship? Do you really want to be best friends wit Robert DeNiro? Do any of these people know you're alive? I can guarantee that Christopher Walken has no idea that I even exist, and I'm okay with that. What I do for a living is different than what he does, and the world keeps turning.

There is no connection at all to any of these folks that could possibly lead to any kind of relationship. Yeah, it'd be pretty sweet to hang out with Warren and Annette, and go along with them when they hop on the private jet for Corfu. That would be fun and interesting, a perspective on life I've never had. But is that going to happen? Of course not. I'm a stranger, and there's no way I could get inside that circle. Maybe if I saved a child from an elephant stampede or some such, then there would be a mutually shared experience which could serve as a basis for an ongoing relationship. But how likely is that to happen? Again, very, very unlikely.

The tough part about this for most folks is that celebrities don't even know you're alive, let alone care. That kind of abject anonymity is pretty tough for most folks to realize and accept, let alone admit.

Why would I crowd in and try to get my picture taken with the President? First, the guy is a Grade A ass, so I've got no intention of being permanently featured in a photo with him as if we were buddies. Second, what's the photo going to convey, that for all of ten seconds on a certain date and certain time, our lives intersected tangentially? There is no intimacy, no closeness, no backstory about shared adventure or experience, just the "Yeah, I was at this rally, and I got to shake his hand." Uh-huh, and who the fuck really cares about that? He didn't know your name before the photo, and I guarantee he doesn't know it now.

Every day, the President and Chris Walken and Warren Beatty and every other person of note you can think of have to drop their trousers and sit on that porcelain throne to squeeze out a dookie. Think about the raw humanity of the luscious Jessica Simpson as she shaves her legs, brushes her teeth, takes her morning and/or evening dump. Yeah, we're all the same, and most of us are complete and total strangers. Celebrity is manufactured and maintained as a hollow social construct, and it really has no meaning to me. My brief interactions in life with Jimmy Carter and his family, with Leonard Nimoy, with Joe Garagiola, with Stallone and Schwarzenegger, with a few other pseudo-celebrities has shown them to be total strangers. And I've been a stranger to them, and that's the way they want it.

So, the reality of it all is that your circle of friends and families is the most meaningful set of relationships you have. You've got family, friends, and professional contacts, and that's about it. That's your most important group, and that's where you should be concentrating your attention.

Forget fame and celebrity. It's hollow and false, a large and colorful backdrop with nothing behind it.

The Way Out

It came to me only recently, just a few weeks ago: I think Hunter S. Thompson, Hemingway, Wendy O. Williams (who in class might remember her?) all of the others just maybe were really on to something. Why would someone otherwise successful and apparently secure choose suicide? Why would someone in their 40s or 50s, statistically at the top of their adult and professional games, generally healthy and largely free of clinical depression and other suicide-tending mental problems, choose to end it all? At the age of 42 now, it seems to me like a truly viable alternative, eventually, the ultimate act of choice, the ultimate statement of personal sovereignty. And a simple way to get away from the unending onslaught of ignorance and bullshit that comes day after day after goddamn day.

I can see how someone would just choose to check out, to finish with existence. Me, I've only really come close to taking myself out once, during a particularly stressful period when my first wife had just been diagnosed with advanced leukemia and there were serious concerns about her recovery. Having been married only a few years, and still very much in love and (so foolishly and ignorantly) completely devoted to her, I had some serious thoughts of suicide if she were to die. I sought counseling, and to that mental health professional's credit, I got some perspective and some things to think about that got my mind right once more. The wife recovered, and dumped my ass a year later. Hey, I was the good man, and did what I had promised to do, and that was how she repaid me. End of story.

But now, it's actually looking like a viable alternative. Kill myself this evening after work just because I had a shitty day and don't get that next company trip that they're sending some smarmy-ass youngster on instead? No, I doubut it seriously, and that's not the point here. Also, I've got Scouts with my son on Thursday. But eventually, sometime down the road when I just get tired of all of the bullshit, the frustration, the fear, the weakness and sickness, the slowly accumulating weight of continuing to live? Yeah, it's a viable alternative.

There are days when the desire to get away from it all is huge, just massive. And I mean get away from it All, away from absolutely Everything, forever. I can't bear another trip to work with the endless parade of assholes who dart and cut and speed and tailgate and do everything they can to get ahead by one car length, who race and jockey in their piece-a-shit Dodge Neons and tricked-out dumbass Scions like they're in a goddamn NASCAR race just to get to their shitty jobs because they don't have the discipline to leave five minutes earlier. And then they get belligerent with me when I use my horn to point out their selfishness and outright danger to themselves and others!? I can't bear another wait in the line at the Safeway with the Britney Spears wannabes, the self-important asses so impatient in the express line on their latest cellphone rigs, the gawping oldsters counting out pennies for a purchase of $95.00, all standing in front of me in a line manned by an under-qualified slacker shithead with his goth black under his bright red apron, his ridiculous mascara'd eyes not giving a shit about anything going on around him (and it's not just his put-on attitude either). There are the days when the audit form comes from the IRS, and from the state tax people, when I know I'm not at fault and it's all a misunderstanding that's going to take six full months to resolve, with letter, phone calls, visits, records, copies, all on me because of their incompetence and inability to track information correctly. It's when the goddamn sonofabitch publishers send you collection notices for magazines you never ordered, and you know it's going to take another six weeks and dozens of phone calls to get these rotten bastards off your back, with the bastards threatening collection agencies if you don't pay their extortion. Then the upstairs bathtub rusts through at the drain gasket and has been leaking into the downstairs closet and through the walls to the floorboards and down into the foundation for about two years without you noticing, which will be maybe $25,000 to fix. Then the dog gets sick and the vet bill is $385.00, just for the tests and please come back next for more. And the wife decides to level with you in that she's just not interested in sex anymore 'cause, you know, it's just a hormone thing, part of getting older, you know, so don't be upset or angry with me, okay? And the car oil has to be changed again, with the wiper blades, and it's all 50 goddamn dollars and a wasted Saturday afternoon sitting in the dingy waiting room with smelly people. And the presents for yet another snotty kid's birthday party. And the whiny, self-centered parents at the neighborhood meeting don't think your ideas are any good, even though they never offer any of their own, or even their share of the work when it comes time to actually do something. And two of the trees in the back yard are ready to fall into the neighbor's yard, the guy is such a prick that you know he'll sue if they even bruise one of his flowers, and the first estimate for the work is only $1800. And the wife wants a new bathroom, and her contractor says it'll only be $12,000. That, and she wants to expand the house within the next five years and that's only going to be $180,000. And she bitches when you up your 401k withholding another 5% because you're thinking ahead to the days when you want to be retired, and you want to have enough money to be able to live and eat regularly. And some dumbass minority kid with a huge chip on his shoulder manufactures some hollow racial outrage based on you saying, "Excuse me" as you try to wedge past him on the sidewalk at the subway. And the local shithead kids destroy your mailbox because your house was the local 6th grade teacher's house, 8 years ago. And the $25 you spent on grass seed is all washed away by a thunderstorm the day after you put it down. And the bushes you plant all die in the summer drought. And you are constantly awakened on a Saturday afternoon when all you want for your headache to go away is 3 hours of uninterrupted sleep. When you can't just walk away from it all, because they'll come looking for you, because you have obligations you have to fulfill, contracts with your signatures on them. You can't just say "I quit" or "Do over" because it's all got you ensnared, fully pulled in and splayed open, ready for the knife to come in, gut you, and finish you. There is no escape, not even the simple escape of fun and frolick with the wife, not even with a mistress or two because of the pain and anguish that will be even worse if you are caught by the wife who can't be bothered enough in the first place to set the conditions that can help make it better for you. And a convicted child-murderer escapes the death penalty on a technicality. And another senator plunges into disgrace for graft. And another mother kills her children, and a distraught father murders his children and wife, then himself. And another dozen no-talent morons become stars and millionaires while the needy and the just and the honest and true go hungry, without compensation or praise, without even attention. And children continue to suffer, everywhere. And there is no God, no proof, no sign, no indication of compassion or empathy anywhere, only the selfish and greedy, their obsessiosn making the world darker, more dangerous, more unpredictable, and a place I worry about for when my children grow older and have kids of their own.

So there you go, just a slice, a teeny-tiny slice of the daily assaults upon my intelligence, patience, sanity, peace of mind, sense of purpose, sense of self-respect, sense of right and wrong, sense of justice, honor, pride, and sexual identity. There are those days when I forget the magnificence of a sunset or a sunrise, when I forget that night in Arizona when the moon rose from behind the mountains, and it was so big and so clear that it actually scared me. I forget how great it is to come home to my kids running, arms open, yelling "Daddy!" The crap piles up so deep, so fast, and so unrelentingly, I forget how nice it is to drive home in the dark in the dead of winter, and see that yellow-orange glow coming from inside my house, and smell the wood smoke from the fire inside, and to lie down on teh carpet with the dog and revel in his fur, in the smell of his breath and his raw, absolutely pure rapture at my attention to him.

So, is this cowardly? Some will say that, and there's no way you'll convince them otherwise. Their take is that to continue to stand up to the crap and the insanity is the ultimate expression of self, the ultimate purpose of life. I guess that's noble, but I don't see it as true. The default of human nature is predation and greed, corruption and connivance, the strong over the weak, the whole Lord of the Rings drama. But the good don't always win, in fact, it's rare when they do because the bad guys are better organized and funded. I believe that completely, and it's proven every single day. A goddamn California magnate spends $10 million on his daughter's bat mitzvah a couple of weeks ago, and you want to talk about the nobility and inherent goodness of mankind? Absolutely ridiculous. Life is random, ugly, tragic, capricious, and happens in the blink of an eye, and to fight it is a losing proposition from the beginning. The best you can do is hold out for only a little while, carve out a private space where you can hide for a while, because in the end those walls will fall and it will come spilling in.

So is this eventual suicide noble, something larger than itself? Some will say yes, that it's the ultimate expression of control over one's life, the ultimate statement of freedom. I tend to agree with that, but it's also a one-way trip. No coming back from this one, no do-overs, no way to right this wrong. If done, it's a permanent statement, right or wrong. That much should be enough for the earnest to take note, take heed, and make damn well sure they know what they're doing before they take the, ahem, plunge. But nobility? I really could care less about any of that. If I off myself, it's not going to be about a public statement, other than my being so thoroughly fed up with having to deal with the pain and process of continuing to live.

So will there come the day? Right now, all I can say is maybe. I won't say no, or yes, as both are too final, too direct, and there's too much else to consider at this time. But someday, yeah, sure, maybe. Will there come the day when my children are grown, the wife gone, when I feel no more need to keep it all going? Maybe. Will the desire to just rest, to get out of the way of the steam locomotive of life be enough to get me there? Maybe.

But right now there are two children who depend on me too much, for my income more than anything else. I've got too much to teach them, far too much stuff to cram into their heads and lives before they head out on their own. And even after that, I'll still have things to tell them and teach them. I have things to contribute at work that keep me here. I have a lot more blog subjects to cover and other things to write about, more vitriol and sedition to spread, and there's no way I can check out until I get most if not all of that done. Hell, I might even get the wife to open up her pants this week, so I've got that to look forward to. Or maybe in another couple of weeks or so. That right there is enough to keep me around for another month. There's Christmas coming up, a trip to the Bahamas, my birthday, and my kids' birthdays. I can see down the line at least another 20 years of things I want to be around for, things I want to experience and take part in. Maybe even longer, assuming my kids marry and have grandkids. Then there are more kids to teach and to spoil, and to impart valuable life lessons to, like how to tie a fishing knot.

Yeah, there are a jillion things to live for, just as I rambled out--very quickly and easily, mind you--just a small sample of all of the crap that grinds me down every single goddamn day. Usually the good stuff outweighs the bad stuff, but sometimes that's not the case. But someday there may just come that time, when I'm alone, weak, sick, tired, and just plain fed-up, that I opt for my own determination of my own end. It's my right, after all. It's possible, sure, but not today, not for a while yet.

Stray Voltage III

Every Saturday, when the Sunday supplement paper arrives, I am reminded once again that JC Penney has the best female underwear photos. When I was a kid it was the same. Sears was far too white, too cotton, too high on the hip, just not there for what we called Polish pornography. These days Macy's, Hecht's and the others just aren't there. Compared to Victoria's Secret and the luscious bawdiness of Frederick's, Penney is pretty tame, sure, but I'll take what marginal little jollies I can as I'm forced to sit through yet another 6-hour Spongebob marathon as I read the paper in the family room.

On a similar note, I love that bus ad I'm seeing in town with the grouping of "average size" women in their white undies. Very nice shapes, all. The undies are pretty tame, but again, I'll take what I can get.

I love the English term "git," although the opportunities to use it for devastating effect here in the US are few and far between, as are the opportunities to use my favorite Aussie, Kiwi, and other British terms of invective, exclamation, and derision. I love "stonking," "plonk," "chuffed," "whinging," "sussed," and the like, but just don't get the chances to use them.

Hot and spicy food: gotta love it. It's truly hard to make good hot food. It's easy to make wickedly hot and spicy food. Just go to any schlocky restaurant and ask for really spicy, and what you'll find is they just dump more red peppers into the same thing they're serving everyone else. So what you get is the standard, just with more heat. That's lazy, and it's sad, and it's the default in most places. But truly hot food, where you get the taste of your dish first and foremost, and then the building glow of that spicy heat, now that's artistry. I've experienced it in a Chinese restaurant in Fuerstenfeldbruck, Germany in the late 1980s, in what is one of the best Chinese meals I've ever had. Absolutely masterful blending of the food, the spices, and the peppers. I've had it in an Indian place in Scotland, with a green curry so hot I couldn't finish it. Yeah, it was pretty wicked-hot, but it also was expertly cooked and made, and I told the chef just that, and thanked him.

Is it just me, or does that rush of dry, consumer-goods-scented air that exhales out of the Big Store when you enter conjure all kinds of childhood memories? I get hit with that popcorn-tires-plastics-clothes smell as I move inside, and I'm transported back to the late 1960s, going shopping for tools and tires with my dad at the Sears Roebuck, and always with the stop at the free popcorn place. I remember electric outboard motors in clear acrylic tanks so you could watch the prop action. I remember the same clear fronts on dishwashers and washing machines, how fascinating that was, and asking if we could get one just like that at home. My dad was so tall, so smart, so sure, and so strong. Man, what a guy.

Once found a drowned man in a tree after a Mississippi flood.

Once shook hands with both Rosalyn and Amy Carter--neato!

Highly intolerant of the stupid, ignorant, and intolerant, and woefully aware that there are more of them than there are of us.

Big on punctuation and spelling.

Open to new experiences in all things, but confident enough to state there are some things I just can't stand, like liver and theme park rides that spin.

Awed by the feminine magnificence of Jamie Lee Curtis, Sigourney Weaver, Jill St. John, Raquel Welch, and sickened by cookie-cutter blondes who can't seem to get enough to eat.

On the constant lookout for the danger in life created by the stupidly selfish and the selfishly stupid, especially on the road.

Secretly afraid of being eaten alive by an animal, like a bear or a shark or an alligator.

Absolutely love that burst of flavor when biting into the perfect hamburger, meat, mustard, onion and pickle all at once. Fantastic.

If a Supreme Being is up there/out there, running things and keeping general tabs on All Of Existence, what exactly is the celestial purpose of serial murderers?

I haven't placed down the little grocery separator thingy at the supermarket in at least 15 years. Invariably it's the neurotic sheep to my front or rear who do it for me, so keen to make sure none of their mass-produced consumer goods, just exactly the same as mine, gets mixed in with the items I'm purchasing. Fascinating little social study, to watch this play out. Try it yourself, tonight, at the Safeway! Fun!

Why is it a man always gives a better men's haircut than a woman?

I have never fired a weapon at a person, nor have had one fired at me. I did, however, have to dodge grenade shrapnel at an Army range once, when an idiot female soldier threw her hand grenade completely out of the impact area. I got a half-dime sized piece of grenade steel through my tunic and lodged in my t-shirt, and a bruise the size of a saucer for two weeks.

As a sixth grader I witnessed two people plunge to their deaths while skydiving. Neither of their chutes opened. No trauma, no tears, no nightmares. It's just something that happened. And whaddaya know, at age 23 I jumped out of an aircraft myself, intentionally, five times out the door of US Air Force aircraft as an Army Airborne student. Loved it.

I'm not quite sure I believe in ghosts, but have had two distinct experiences in which sounds in an otherwise empty house just can't be explained. I'm still not sure what's gone on there.

I can't take chili dogs, not at all. It's been almost 30 years since that fateful summer day in 7th grade when any number of factors intersected in space-time to make me violently ill immediately after a lunch of chili dogs, but man, I still can't go anywhere near them.

I think Larry King is a hollow, preening dipshit.