Wag of the Finger

California 2008

2008-01-14T19:27:00.001-05:00

Coming Soon - Summer 2008

Open for Biznass

2007-08-30T09:53:00.000-04:00

Call me a self-righteous, self-involved and self-serving ego maniac, but I miss writing here. There's something about publicly shaming the wicked and sharing my thoughts on inane subjects that gives me such twisted pleasure. I'm just a MAN! I'm not a MACHINE! (I know that's not in context, but I've always wanted to write it.)

I very likely won't post as much as I once did, with such carefully researched entries (wikipedia). But maybe I will. I'm done placing parameters on myself. It will evolve as it should. Verily, and rightly so.

The previous entry from February 2007 concerning my beloved Buccos bores me to tears now. I have several follow-ups in the can, but they aren't very well written, sad to say. It was to be my grand dissertation - life-defining insight into my character and personality through the vehicle of my devotion to a major league sports franchise. It's just... I feel more complex than that these days, and what I wrote doesn't define who I am anymore. A lot can happen in 6 months.

I'm embarking on new territory - always with a wink and smile - so bookmark this sucker. It's going to get gloriously messy in here.

Individuality, Underdogism and Worthlessness - The Life of One Pirates Fan

2007-02-19T15:29:00.000-05:00

On November 15, 1990, music producer Frank Ferian confessed to a group of reporters that Fab Morvan and Rob Pilatus, the duo known as Milli Vanilli, had not sung a single note on their Grammy Award-winning debut album. Public backlash was immediate. Their Grammy Award was revoked; jokes at their expense were omnipresent on the late night talk show circuit; Arista Records dropped them like a hot potato; lawsuits were filed; and, somewhere in the drab, cultureless reaches of suburban South Florida, the worst fears of a lonely 13-year old boy were confirmed - "being mainstream sucks out loud."

Roughly one month before, my beloved Pittsburgh Pirates - a team I had religiously followed for years via yellowed Pittsburgh Post-Gazette clippings sent by my grandmother - lost the National League Divisional Series to the Cincinnati Reds. The Pirates had the better record of the two teams (95-67) and featured a trio of childhood heroes: centerfielder and prankster Andy Van Slyke, blue collar third baseman Bobby Bonilla, and a leftfielder still more than a decade away from steroid allegations named Barry Bonds. I tore their posters off my wall in a rage.

My family had only recently relocated to South Florida from a small town on the North Fork of Long Island. But I wasn't from New York. I wasn't from anywhere, really. Pittsburgh had long been my ideological hometown despite my having never actually lived there. I was born in Pennsylvania, though, and that was good enough for me. Pittsburgh was aligned in my teenage mind with Christmas, snow, family and Pirates baseball. I remember thinking to myself, "someday, when I can choose for myself where I am to live, I will move to the big city of Pittsburgh, get season tickets to Pirates games and ride the incline to Fort Pitt daily." I was just a kid who hated humidity.

As a Pirates fan, I suffered through three years on Long Island inundated with the New York Mets - the Pirates then-rivals for the National League East. I loathed the Mets at that time, or more accurately, I could not stand growing up surrounded by fans of my arch rivals. To make matters worse, I moved to that small town as the new kid and left it three years later with the same label. Classmates had never left the Island in their lives. I was rambunctious, arrogant and prone to emotional outbursts. Displaced, I took solace in championing the Buccos. I chose to go against the grain. I chose this path.

This period of my life served to define who I would become as an adult, who many other Pirates fans would become - and it is the launching-off point for analysis that I postulate defines the very essence of Americans in 2007.

More soon…

THIS BLOG IS OVER

2007-01-08T23:51:00.000-05:00

Shit, I've lost any passion for this that I used to have. I'll leave it up, to remind me that once upon a time, I cared. But I don't anymore.

People, I write copy ALL DAY LONG. I'm a writer. It's my job. At one point, this blog helped me feel better about myself; it helped my feel creative. But I've hit some sort of wall like I've never experienced. Getting up in the morning...

Thank you. Thank you to anyone who has followed my crappy meandering posts. Looking back, I'm glad to have given this a go.

One of the best SNL's ever...

2006-12-04T20:21:00.000-05:00

Nope, not the Matthew Fox piece of crap from this past Saturday. At 3AM, NBC runs classic SNL's from years past. Recently, they've been dwelling in the 1998-2000 years, and there have been some choice nuggets in there. Never a full show, though.

This past weekend, we were treated to the Christmas 1990 episode hosted by Tom Hanks. Man, that was one of the best epsiodes of my own childhood. You got the 'Five Timers Club,' 'Mr. Short Term Memory' with a special guest appearance by Tony Randall, Weekend Update 'Jingle Bells' in an All-Dennis Miller 3-part harmony, 'The Global Warming Christmas Special' hosted by Mike Myers as Carl Sagan and Tom Hanks as Dean Martin, Sabra Shopping Network... and a special Christmas Story by A. Whitney Brown.

I still remember being 13 years old, thinking Saturday Night Live was the coolest thing ever. This episode reminds me that it wasn't just childhood innocence. It really was brilliant once upon a time.

"Hey, what the hell's a 'bob-tail,' cha-chaaaaa?"

One Month Anniversary

2006-11-19T12:47:00.000-05:00

It's been one full month since my last post, and even then I was blogging less frequently. What happened exactly? Your guess is as good as mine. I simply lost interest. Unfortuantely, simple as that.

I've contemplated blowing the whole site up, deleting it... or replacing it with pictures of sad clowns. Sure, I spent a statistically significant amount of time this year thinking up topics to investigate, composing articles infused with my own special take on life. I think I fell a little bit in love with the exercise.

But not unlike the love of a beautiful woman in Tijuana, the feeling was fleeting. I'm not completely finished with 'Wag. Heck, this might be the swift kick in the arse that I need to get going again. Or maybe not.

Thanks for continuing to visit. You just never know.

Cage and Quaid - Celebrity Bacchi

2006-10-19T00:07:00.000-04:00

Every year during Mardi Gras in New Orleans, the Krewe of Bacchus puts on a lavish parade where one celebrity appears as Bacchus himself, dressed up in a fancy, ornate costume. Ahhh, leggings on men. Nothing says masculine quite like leggings... or queen size pantyhose.

And, yes, a photo gallery of these celebrities exists… here.

The Devo Fishbowl has nominated Nicholas Cage as the Official Celebrity Bacchus for the Wall of the Weird. Honorable mention goes to Dennis Quaid for looking incredibly wasted... as he should. It is Mardi Gras after all.

At a loss these days...

2006-10-17T22:29:00.000-04:00

... to understand my own motivations socially, and especially romantically. What am I after, anyways? A challenge? Sure, to a degree, but that gets really old after a while. Someone who thinks I'm the shiz? Yeah, of course, but not too much so... for some reason that puts me off too. Perhaps I just subconsciously blow anything up that gets too close to home... or perhaps it's the old lowish self esteem at times that doesn't allow me to let a lady be that in to me... or perhaps I just believe that the whole package exists, somewhere, and geez, why give up on that little bit of hope for the future?

See, I'm the manic one. Me. My emotions fluctuate all over the X axis, and someone equally emotional is never going to work. Likewise, someone coldly logical or emotionally scarred is going to think I'm just plain nuts. Someone who gets me, but isn't exactly like me... balance... happiness... does it exist?

All this to say - on the eve of my parents coming to visit me in my one-bedroom apartment in Astoria, Queens - I don't really know how I'm going to break it to the Moms that I'm a ways off from figuring it all out.

Tip of the Cap, Wag of the Finger

2006-10-09T22:56:00.000-04:00

It's been a busy couple of weeks, but I've got an itch to pass judgment and slam some things into a vat of corrosive acid. And to balance out this negativity, I'll throw my support behind a project that's earned my respect. This is Tip of the Cap, Wag of the Finger...

The Times They Are A-Changin' - The Musical (Bob Dylan and Twyla Tharp)
What is this crap? No, seriously, why is Bob Dylan associated with something so devoid of artistic direction? I'm no fan of "jukebox" musicals in the first place, so perhaps I'm not the intended audience. So who is the intended audience anyways? Musical theatre geeks who haven't a clue as to the source material? Fetishists who enjoy watching hairless young men contort their bodies into cows and sheep to the sounds of "Man Gave Names to All the Animals?" No discernable plot, awful orchestration, Walmart-purchased props... Save your money, go to ITunes and download the entire Dylan catalogue for $199. At the price of Broadway tickets these days, that's about a straight-up exchange.

Martin Scorsese's "The Departed"
Marty! MARTY! You're back, baby, with a film that deserves it's spot beside "Mean Streets" and "Goodfellas." Now, I greatly enjoyed "The Aviator" as a nice change-of-pace film for Scorsese, and though "Gangs of New York" was deeply flawed in its plot, it looked friggin' amazing. And that's what Scorsese does; he makes films that look, sound and feel amazing. When he gets the right script, the result is usually pretty kick ass. From the initial "Oooooh" of the Stone's "Gimme Shelter," you know you can sit back and enjoy what is to come. DiCaprio and Damon are great, Nicholson is appropriately reigned in and sinister as all hell, the twists and turns are delivered artfully... Greatly enjoyed it. I was shocked to read that it opened bigger than any previous Scorsese film. "The Aviator" is his biggest domestic grosser at just a shade over $100 million. What is wrong with America? The most recent Adam Sandler poop sandwich "Click" made $137 million! And we wonder why Bush was reelected to a second term?

Kim Jong-Il Performs North Korea's First Ever Nuclear Test
Well, I see where this one's going, don't you? Bush is preaching diplomacy out of one side of his mouth while simultaneously calling the tests "unacceptable." At the same time, Iran is suspected to have the nuclear capabilities Iraq didn't have. And we're super pissed on Israel's behalf at Iran's backing of Hezbollah. Pretty soon everybody is going to be ignoring NATO and going nuclear to keep up with the Jong-Il's next door. China isn't going to take this lying down. World War III? When it finally happens, will middle America blame the media for not having seen the writing on the wall? 'Cause to voice these concerns now is to somehow not support the troops, or to be a conspiracy theorist of some sort. Pulling out the bomb now, with everything else going on, just kicks the ball further down the hill. At the bottom? Mom better check the expiration date on the SPAM in the ol' bomb shelter. I think it's wear Dad keeps the lawn mower.

ESPN Blows, Mass Defection

2006-10-03T08:33:00.000-04:00

Some of you know, some of you don't - I am a die-hard Pittsburgh Pirates fan. That's baseball, ladies. Our team has been God-awful for 14 consecutive seasons. We ended up well below .500 this season, and though Freddy Sanchez won the Batting Crown, and Ian Snell surprised everyone by not folding like a chair... the Pirates were one of the worst teams yet again. This is nothing new.

I was just a kid when Barry Bonds and Andy Van Slyke, my yin and yang childhood heroes, led the Pirates to their third consecutive post season failure. I became hooked on unfulfilled expectation. When college ended, and life looked very bleak indeed, a bunch of people I'll likely never know saved me from a dark future.

For the past 6 years or so, I've called the ESPN Pirates Message Board a home away from home. Boobery of all shapes and sizes was enacted on the ruthlessly evil and stupid; chivalry proved a capable defense against those who would have my egg; and, all the while, this warm blanket of familiarity was vistited upon me thousands of times. It was the fraternity house of numbskulls I never had.

But no more. The bastards at ABC have decided in their finite wisdom to once again overhaul the look, the feel, the fabric of our lives... Many of us have abandoned ship and joined the oft-overlooked Pirates section of the Maximum Grilled Steelers site. The gangs all there. I post under the moniker "Dagwood's Blonde Fantasy."

I'm through helping ESPN and their parent company, the dark overlord Satan, sell advertising through my patronage. I am, in fact, a cyber-immigrant. MGS has graciously opened their borders to us wayward freaks.

Gawd bless 'em!

Happy Birthday!

2006-09-28T23:08:00.000-04:00

How many people get an on-line shout-out for his/her birthday? Not many. Rock stars mostly. And late night talk show hosts. And people with arrest records. Oh, and carpetbaggers from the 1860s. And I guess taxidermists. Wait, can't forget Corey Feldman...

Happy fricken birthday, Sarah. May the next 62.3 years be lively ones... well, at least until you're in your 70s, at which time it would be acceptable to start a collection of some sort... I collect bottle caps... Obscure Mah Jong pieces could be fun...

Case of the Blahs...

2006-09-22T00:17:00.000-04:00

I'm not writing because I have nothing of value to say. Better I not waste precious bandwith voicing bullshit theories on nonsensical subjects. At least, that's what I've been telling myself.

In truth, I've had a case of writers block. Most of what you read on here is stream of consciousness. I rarely go back to edit to refine thoughts, and as such most of it reads as such. If you want that sort of thing, surf over to Dave Barry on the Miami Herald. I never know when inspiration will hit, but I refuse to force it. If nothing jars the noodle, I'm content to abstain.

Plus, I had an awful stomach thing the past couple days. Thankfully, I think it was only the 48-hour variety, as I'm 90% right now and I haven't prayed to the porcelain God in the last 6 hours or so. I should knock on some wood or something... I'm tempting fate here.

I met someone last weekend and I think it's a good thing. She's really smart and has a similar sense of humor. Making her laugh is like winning the lottery. And, if it truly is all about the kiss, this has potential. Best of all, she seems devoid of baggage... I seem to go after those with matched luggage as a general rule, so this, at least, is advancement. I look forward to our next sparring match. I need to read up on the rules of engagement - I'm a little rusty.

Football the weekend. Baseball heading toward the playoffs. Is there any better season than the fall? I think not...

9-12-06: Day Late, Right on Time

2006-09-12T21:50:00.000-04:00

Greetings 'Wag readers. So sorry to have abandoned you by fleeing to the trees. I just needed time to clear my mind, see the clear blue sky again and remember that there is more to life than the tedium of the everyday. I'm pretty much over the doldrums I was experiencing. As a matter of fact, I had an exceptional day today. W00t!

But a lot of people were feeling pretty damn crappy yesterday. I needn't remind anyone of the anniversary, because unless you checked out, it was everywhere you looked. The local newspaper, every media outlet in fact... the American flags lining the way to work, the sad countenances of upper management who told you take some personal time if you need it, the grocery store that re-strung the banner from last year, the players' hats at the Mets game, the entire stadium on Monday Night Football, GWB delivering a 4th grade rendering of the "The Boogeyman Cometh" by F. Justin Case... The circumstances of September 11th would not be forgotten for lack of red, white and blue crinoline. Because if we don't sell freedom by the yard, the terrorists win.

The date is burned into the collective conciousness. No one wants to get married on September 11th. Expectant mothers tighten up the uterus for just one more day if at all humanly possible. And if the baby is unavoidable, perhaps 'Liberty' really is a beautiful name for a girl, and heck, why not make this negative a positive.

But for many, yesterday wasn't just a tender reminder of our country's twisted foreign policy. For the unfortuante hundred-thousand, yesterday was the day they mourned the loss of a friend, a family member, a colleague or a spouse. While everyone "got into the spirit," they tried very hard to reconnect with an inner spirit that at times feels very far away and very wicked indeed. How difficult it must be to stomach the pro-American rah-rahs that blanketed the country yesterday while simply trying to keep it together one more day, one more year...

Worse still must be the water cooler talk about the "wasted opportunity" of September 11th; how the world was with us all the way in that moment and how the current administration frittered it away. "Hey, man, that worldwide sentiment was built on the souls of thousands of innocents, my wife included, and you talk about it like a corporate marketing scheme." And yet those wounded don't voice these opinions. Instead, they take the day off. Or avoid the rhetoric altogether. That debate is for those of us less personally effected. Pull out the soap boxes, but make sure that poor guy in R&D is out of earshot.

I wasn't in New York City for 9/11. I was in the Times Union Center for the Performing Arts in Jacksonville, Florida. We had a staff meeting that morning, and we learned of the attack just before it started. Our boss chose to conduct the meeting as planned (a decision I will remember until my dying day), and we finished just in time (I mean quite literally to the second) to turn on the television for the first building to collapse. We left soon after (but only after we checked to see what the other consitutent organizations were doing... grrrr), hugged each other briefly, and I went to a Mexican restaurant and drank Coronas like there wasn't going to be a tomorrow... because, you know, we weren't entirely sure.

That's my story. It sucks. Living in New York City, I meet people everyday with far more compelling personal stories: the woman who crowd surfed onto the last train leaving the World Trade Center; the buddy who literally observed the second plane hit in real time; the frantic scrambling of another to discover if his fiancee was still in the building. These people LIVED 9/11, and though I was freaked out as all hell, I feel like the worst kind of interloper on a day like yesterday. I had a crazy tostada salad at 12:30 on 9/11/01 and bemoaned the inevitable retaliation. These people suffered in ways I can not empathize with... and yet I sympathize.

These people do not let you know they suffer inside. These people trooper through it all. I'm not going to be that asshole who makes some snide anti-Bush comment in mixed company. It could have been that guy's wife or that lady's father. 9/11 deserves to be retaken by those who actually experienced true loss, and to be treated as a real day of remembrance for those of us who felt a fear our country hadn't felt since the Cuban missle crisis of 1961. Fear and sadness link us as Americans on a day like yesterday, and screw those who try to turn it into a political message of any kind.

Take, for instance, a crazy witch like Katherine Harris. Don't ask me how (okay, I know how), but one of my 47 e-mail addresses receives spam from Florida Congresswoman Katherine Harris. For those of you who haven't suffered through an August in the Sunshine State, she's the idiot who served as top elections official during the 2000 elections. Ah, yes, the woman with the horrible makeup. Well, she's running for U.S. Senate, and here's her lovely 9/11 "vote-for-me" e-mail (reprinted on her website as well):

NEVER FORGET 9/11
HARRIS PLEDGES CONTINUED SUPPORT FOR NATIONAL SECURITY &
IMMIGRATION REFORM

TAMPA, FL-- In honor of the fifth anniversary of September 11, 2001, Congresswoman Katherine Harris, the Republican Senatorial Candidate, reaffirms her strong support for the war on terror and pledges to remain vigilant in safe guarding our national security while serving in the United States Senate, by first securing our national borders through any means necessary. Harris will finish the job in the Senate that she began in the House by advocating for a strong national defense, a well-equipped military and a secured identification system for a temporary, legal workforce.

Congresswoman Harris commented, "We must not falter in our efforts to aggressively destroy terrorist networks around the world. Real progress is being made, and in the Senate I will fight to secure the borders so that terrorists cannot slip in and unleash violence upon the American people."

As a crucial element towards strengthening our homeland security policies, Congresswoman Harris opposes amnesty for illegal aliens and will make border security a top priority in the U.S. Senate next year.

Harris continues, "The safety of our children and our way of life depends upon it." (editor's note: emphasis mine)

Early this year, Harris' opponent, Democrat Bill Nelson, supported Senate Bill 2611 which places too much emphasis on granting rights and privileges to millions of illegal immigrants rather than enforcing our current immigration laws and ensuring that our borders are sealed off from potential threats.

Moreover, Nelson rejected Senate Amendment 4097, which sought to change the confidentiality requirements effecting the U.S. Citizenship and Immigration Services' ability to share information gathered from guest-worker applications, hampering USCIS' ability to detect fraud and remove criminals and potential national security threats. Failing to stand up for our security, our opponent voted to kill the amendment.

Katherine Harris, the Republican Candidate for the United States Senate, currently serves as the Representative for Florida's 13th Congressional District. After receiving a Masters in Public Policy from Harvard's Kennedy School of Government, she continued a distinguished career in public service to her native state that began in the State Senate and as Florida's last elected Secretary of State. She resides in Longboat Key with her husband Anders Ebbeson and his 24-year-old daughter, Louise along with the constituents of District thirteen.

For more information visit www.electharris.org

Enough said. Her 24-year old step-daughter, who still lives at home with daddy and the step-monster, would do well to step into the shoes of someone who lives in the real world. Tying border control, and the amnesty of illegals from Mexico, to 9/11 and attacks by terrorists is so sad it's almost humorous. Almost... except it's hard to laugh when you're crying.

And so I step down off my own soapbox. To quote a well-respected brother from another mother: "Remember, but THINK. That will be the best way to honor the 3,000 that died on 9/11/01." And I'd like to add, remember that for far too many, the anniversary of the funeral isn't until this coming weekend.

Down with the Biznatch...

2006-09-10T18:46:00.000-04:00

Nepotism is king in the National Football League.

Labor Day Weekend Recap

2006-09-05T08:09:00.000-04:00

Nothing much to report, and surpringly few observations to share on the world at-large. The weekend was a relaxing one, and with the start of the NFL season just a few days away, I guess my thoughts are elsewhere.

Ah well. Happy September.

Life Should be a Beach...

2006-08-29T20:16:00.000-04:00

I'mmmm BAAACK!

Did you miss me? Did you even know I was gone? Who are you anyways? What are you doing here? Seriously, close the window... You're making me nervous, freak. AMSCRAY ANGERSTRAY!!!!

Ahhhh, Cape Cod was everything I'd read it would be, which was basically limited to a miniature golf pamphlet from 1982: "The Land of 1,000 Goofy Golf Courses!" Unfortuantely, Skull (Farking) Island was swarmed with would-be junior hedge fund managers, so we opted for a less populated course or two. Arrrrrrg! For a minute there, I was 12 years old and sexually awkward. After four steaming bowls of chowdah, I was back on my game.

Beyond that foolishness, it was a relaxing vacation on the beach. As you can see, I got a haircut. I'm happy to report that I am refreshed and ready to make all my dreams a reality.

Here's a brief recap:

Cape Cod Potato Chips have long been a favorite snack food for my family going back to our brief tenure as Rhode Islanders. As it turns out, they actually make these chips in Hyannis, MA, which was just a short trip from where we were staying in Sandwich. Or maybe it's all for show. It was pretty small, just a bald guy with a bucket of potatoes, and I doubt very highly he pops the popcorn too.

I spent as much time as possible here, in front of our firepit just 40 feet from our cabin. The No-Goodnick ladies next door insisted on building a larger fire, shaking their lithe, 21 year-old bodies in my direction. But these sirens had no control over me. Nay, I was a veritable stone statue. The salt air may have cleared my mind, but the beer just made it foggy again.

Hey, check out these cool rocks. Rawk! I wish I could tell you why they are so multi-colored and diverse. I pin that one on God.

Okay, I admit it, I take really crappy pictures. That's not what this trip was about. I have returned to NYC recharged. I don't need well-framed pictures to remind me of that...

Vacation: About Time

2006-08-21T16:13:00.000-04:00

I've been neglecting to post of late, and now I'm preparing to hit the Cape for the week. I'm completely and utterly psyched to get away for a little while with my friends. It's a much needed thing. I've been running on empty of late, and it's my hope that I'll return refreshed and ready to chug through the rest of the year.

I'll be taking my camera with me (that is, if I don't forget), and will hopefully have a couple to share on 'Wag.'

Until then...

Astoria: The "M" word?

2006-08-16T23:28:00.000-04:00

For the better part of the last five years, I've watched Astoria, Queens follow the path of so many once-culturally diverse outerborough neighborhoods within a stones throw of Manhattan. Though I think it inevitable that this urban enclave will eventually succumb to its proximity, I wonder if there is a way for my favorite longtime, stalwart 30th Avenue restaurants and stores to maintain their cultural integrity while acknowledging that change is a'comin', it's rolling 'round the bend, and maybe it's time to alter the business model to capitalize on the opportunity. (†"But that train keeps a-rollin', right on down to Ditmars too..."†)

Evidence of "manhattafication" is fairly easy to spot. Starbucks is usually first on the scene; their number crunchers predicting a slightly more affluent median income in years to come. Next, longtime specialty stores on major thoroughfares see rents begin to climb, and specificity of product begins to wane. Straphangers.org starts to advocate for an overhaul of the main subway line feeding the neighborhood. Suddenly, it's a bit more fashionable to tell your friends you moved out of Manhattan to capitalize on the cheap rent. Before long, the cultural identity of the neighborhood appears irrevocably changed. That great Greek restaurant down the street is now an organic health food store; the Indian fabric store is liquidating to make way for a chain sushi restaurant; recyclables packed on the sidwalk are in neatly stapled Whole Foods grocery bags.

My street (30th Avenue between 31st Street and Steinway) has undergone quite a bit of transition during my tenure here. Several cafes have opened, giving the Athens Cafe (which once had a monopoly on coffee and baklava) some stiff competition. The European cafe and it's pressed sandwiches were gone by summer 2002 and a chain restaurant now occupies that corner space. The Dunkin' Donuts and Subway a block from the train are usually busy, within earshot of a homegrown bagelshop and a bodega with the best deli sandwiches around.

And yet, several of my favorite stores and restaurants - the kinds of places that make me proud to live on 30th Avenue - have not only weathered the influx, they've embraced it. I am a 6'3 suburban kid, and it's obvious to look at me that I didn't know a souvlaki platter from a plate of moussaka before moving here. The owners of these establishments never made me feel anything but welcome.

What I propose is this: to interview six of the prominent business owners on 30th Avenue; businesses that were here before me and will likely be here long after I am gone. I want to find out what has kept them around, how they plan to survive in the future, and what they really think of a guy like me as a regular customer. I know most of these business owners. They call me "chief" or "buddy," and I in turn call them "boss."

These are my neighbors. And I love this neighborhood.

I said THREE Splenda!!! THREEEEEEE!!!!

2006-08-14T21:13:00.000-04:00

By its very definition, 'Wag' represents an outward manifestation of my pent up frustrations with "the way things are." When I launched in March, I had no idea just how therapeutic the exercise would become. Through the written word, I am able to vent about virtually anything and everything, and though the names may be changed to protect the guilty, I rarely dilute the sentiment. I take pride in the product, consider it my main creative outlet and have rapidly become addicted to my "fix" of moral outrage...

At the same time, by consistently focusing on subjects that get my ire up, I've noticed a distinct change of late in my point-of-view, if not my basic character; my cyber-life has spilled into my real life and I don't know yet how I feel about it.

The symptoms are probably not easily recognizable to anyone not residing in my mind or heart. Still, some people in my life have been unfairly positioned on the receiving end of my Gonzo-inspired rants, and because a substantial portion of me remains unchanged, I heavily regret my actions almost immediately. And yet, I am not dissuaded from thinking I was absolutely, 100%, without-a-doubt correct in my assertion. I just question my method of communicating my vision when it's all said and done. Trotsky probably felt this way as Stalin bastardized Lenin's ideology. "Bollocks, if only Pete Best were around." Wait, that was John Lennon.

I argue so vehemently my point of view on here and my theories go completely unchecked. That intoxicating feeling of zero oversight can become a problem.

This is a wake-up call. And I'm calling collect. "PickmeupImatthemovies" Beating the system can be fun, but someday you have to man up to finally being an adult.

WTB: Water Taxi Beach - New Queens Destination

2006-08-13T13:16:00.000-04:00

With the Bohemian Beer Garden overrun with a very different crowd these days, I think the new spot for locals should be Water Taxi Beach. And by locals, I just mean good, solid people who don't spend an hour applying makeup or hair gel before arriving.

I wag'd about my first trip a few months ago, and in fact, I'm heading there right now to enjoy some of this unexpectedly brilliant weather we've been experiencing of late.

More later. I'm taking some pictures.

Another Birthday: Requiem for a Dream

2006-08-09T22:12:00.000-04:00

I found out an interesting tidbit tonight about my origin: I was more than ten days late when I was born. I never knew this, or perhaps I'd known once upon a time but completely forgot. I was supposed to be born in late July, but stubborn me, I insisted on following my own schedule. Like James Brown's 1998 Pay-My-Lawyer Tour, I was banking on the frenzy that would accompany my grand entrance. A few days before my birth, my mother had a dream that I came out smoking a cigar and demanding hamburgers. She distinctly remembers the horror of trying to stuff hamburgers into a baby bottle.

I must have hatched this plan as a zygote: "Why give all this up for an unknown future? This is all I've ever known, and besides, I like it in here! I want for nothing, I got a roof over my head and three squares a day. I've seen the home movies, heard the tales - being born is no picnic. Join the human race? Science be damned, I'm going to need some time to work this all out!"

My poor mother. For this reason, and a multitude of others, she deserves all great things, forever and ever, amen. Thanks Ma. Oh, and Dad too. You make a great team.

Focus Groups: What a Racket...

2006-08-07T22:49:00.000-04:00

Made a cool $100 tonight for my insightful take on Heineken's new ad campaign. Or maybe I phoned it in. Does it matter? It's the same money either way.

Nah, I took it seriously. I could sense the suits behind the two-way mirror bristling at my suggestion that the brand adopt the catch phrase: "Heineken: Feel It In Your Gut!" I like the double entendre there, and everyone seemed to agree - go with your gut.

I guess that's a little more Mountain Dew than Heineken. Ah well, I was throwing out gold to those ad wizards, and all they were looking for was the average man's opinion.

Madman Max: Beyond Forgetfulness

2006-08-02T23:27:00.000-04:00

Last Friday night, 50-year old actor and film director Mel Gibson got trashed, drove his Lexus 80 MPH in a 45 MPH zone, spouted a bunch of bigoted and sexist slurs, had this lovely mug shot taken and ended the evening by posting $5,000 bail like it was a parking fine. As mentioned in the police report, the 5'8 actor scored a 0.12 on the breathalyzer test, which according to this chart, could be achieved by roughly 3 acloholic drinks in a one hour period.

Oh yeah, he had an open bottle of Tequila in the car. And he acted like a madman when he was initially pulled over. Some have wondered whether the LAPD might have fudged some of the details of his arrest. The original arrest report didn't mention his behavior, and despite his ranting and raving, the police were interested in keeping everything quiet. Some are saying he wasn't really all that drunk, just on some sort of power trip. Was his blood-alcohol level only 0.12? Sure, that's too high to be driving, but given his behavior, I surmise three scenarios: 1. The being drunk thing is a cover-up, and he's just a wacko; 2. The police lowered the rate to help the King of Malibu avoid a PR disaster, or 3. He was under the influence of more than that bottle of Tequila, which he admits to have been drinking while in the car.

Why do I know these details? Maybe because, you know, I have functioning eyes and ears? You can scarcely log on to the Internet or turn on the TV without being inundated with expert analysis, minute-by-minute reenactments and the fevered remarks of outraged citizens. This thing is huge, and despite his two apologies and a promise to check himself into rehab, it doesn't look like it is going away anytime soon. He's following all the standard rules of public apology - issue statements, blame it on a sickness, ask for forgiveness, disappear completely... but it isn't working. Yet...

As we all know by now, Mel said some rather potty things while he was being arrested. His declaration that "the Jews are responsible for all the wars in the world" will follow him until the day he dies, and will likely show up in his Variety obituary some day. For a guy who took so much heat for his portrayal of Jews in The Passion of the Christ, it was perhaps the worst statement he could possibly have made (calling the female arresting officer "Sugar-tits," while comical, comes in a distant second). It validated for so many Jewish people what they had suspected for years - Mel Gibson's anti-Semitism; a perfect sound byte of bigotry.

When I read the first AP news release, errr, story about this, it got me thinking: Mel Gibson is a $200+ millionaire. The Passion of the Christ alone netted him somewhere north of $70 million. Why is this admitted alcoholic driving himself anywhere? Here in NY, I know plenty of CEOs and top executives who have a private car service take them everywhere. If he has that sort of money, why isn't someone picking him up and dropping him off? When my million dollar idea takes off, the first thing I get is a dedicated driver. Get blasted in the back seat - let someone else drive the thing.

That he was recklessly driving an expensive car while swigging Tequila from the bottle isn't the news story, nor that he threatened the officers continually, saying he "owns Malibu" and would use his power and wealth to crush these poor, unsuspecting police officers who were just trying to do their jobs. Normally, that would be enough to get a Hollywood type on the front page of the Drudge Report. But anti-Semitic crazy-talk while being arrested for all those things? In light of his history? Very nearly unbelievable, and just plain idiotic. It would be like Roman Polanski and Woody Allen proclaiming their life-long devotion to carnal pleasure with under-aged girls while being issued parking citations, or Kate Moss frantically wiping her nose with a sandpaper napkin while walking through customs at Heathrow.

I have a theory that takes some explaining. It doesn't explain his comments, per se, but gives some contect to his mindset. Keep in mind: I think Mel Gibson deserves a lot of public backlash, if not an end to his film career. But as someone who often makes generalized, obnoxious comments on 'Wag' from time to time, I have a slightly different perspective.

I swear this is relevant. When I get mildly intoxicated, say, at 1:30 in the morning while occupying a chair at the religiously-attended, bi-monthly Texas Hold 'Em game, George W. Bush is often the subject of conversation, and at that moment he is more evil than the most evil thing. Most of the people I play with share this view, and we take comfort in our ability to just rail against the guy. I've been known to mutter anti-Bush sentiments to myself while walking out to my cab. In fact, I will often engage my cabbie in a spirited, tip-raising dialogue about whatever I was last discussing. Here's some samples of my conversations with cabbies after a net $50+ night (all inspired by actual conversations - when I lose, I am silent):

"Thanks for picking me up, man. (pause) This immigration thing, right? Big vote on Monday. Let me ask you, truth or untruth: George W. Bush is the Anti-Christ. (pause) It's a simple question, truth or falsehood? (unintelligble response) You got that right, man, MARK OF THE BEAST! Our president is a liar, a cheat, a crook and the worst thing to happen to this country since Johnson accelerated Vietnam. (pause) Sorry, the Indochina conflict or whatever. (pause) So, here's a question I've always wanted to ask a cabbie in Astoria - that Greek club on 30th and 29th where they had that shooting last month, you ever pick up mafia types? (pause - no response) Okay, nevermind. Take me to White Castle on 21st."
"Can you believe those Mets? World Series written all over them! Yes or no? And a follow-up question before you answer yes - who is more surprisingly clutch in the late innings, Nady or Valentin? (before he can answer) Do you know the score from tonight? It was tied in the 7th and then we were listening to the new Belle and Sebastian and I completely forgot. Can you put on 1010 WINS, yeah, and turn it up LOUD. Louder. Yep, that's the stuff. Thanks man. I'm going to close my eyes for a second, here;s the thing: you wake me up when we hit Key Foods, okay? Deal or no deal? Hahahaha! I hate that show."
"These blackouts, right? People without working appliances. Good for business? What have you heard? Any areas out of power? It's ConEd, man... I have this theory about energy conservation... Listen, I need a couple minutes, do me a favor. Let's drive around, it's quarter of 3, I want to arrive at my apartment at 3:10 on the dot. Take me somewhere interesting - I'm good for it. HOLY SMOKES! Listen, is there a road in Astoria that dead ends into the East River? Close? Like less than a block? Take me there. And step on it."
"I was the big winner tonight - Mr. Filthy Poncho, Mr. Big Stacks McCracks - and wanna know what else? For once it wasn't just the cards, but how I played the game! Far more satisfying than a lucky run of cards. You play poker? Yeah, gambling, Texas Hold 'Em? Yeah? Righteous. Hold on to the steering wheel 'cause I got a story for you! Listen to THIS hand; hour two, I'm dealt pocket fours, both black, and I stick around through not one but TWO raises, 'cause I recently took down some chips and I think they've put me on suited connectors in the 10-J range. You following? I just wanted to see the flop and hope for an unsuspecting trip 4's. Take a right on 31st. Okay, so five out of seven in the hand, the flop is low and helping no one but me I suspect, and the same two guys pull no-hesitation $1 raises. Both had recently lost big hands to me and I think they wanted to take some of that back. Alright, slow down a sec, I haven't even told you the flop! Yeah, through the light and over to the right. Where was I? Right, low cards on the board, I suspect either a big slick out there or high pocket pairs. (we arrive at the destination, I pick-up the speed) We lose a player, tentative to my left, two raisers who aren't re-raising each other. How much is the fare? Okay, hold on, let me finish... 2-3-A on the board, I've met but not raised anything, two more raises. I meekly meet them, that Ace scaring the crap out of me. Fourth street - another Ace. One guy isn't breathing - telltale sign, and the other is too eager with the $4 already in his hand. I should have folded right there, but I'm staring at a $20 pot right now and thinking, hell, a four or five and I win this thing, and to be honest the non-re-raise on the flop from the guy I think isn't posturing gives me a good feeling. Short of someone having an Ace, or a higher pocket pair, I've got the best hand. Listen, I can see you want to leave and that you think I'm crazy. Look, you let me finish telling this story and you get a worthy tip, okay? It's almost over. Okay, fifth street comes up and it is another 2 of all things. Two aces, two twos and a three on the board. No flush possibilities, and neither of these guys would have raised pre-flop with 4-5 or anything with a two. Another round of betting, over the top, over the top, over the top... they aren't even looking at me anymore - I'm forgotten, just quietly matching these raises. $30 in the pot, now $40... possibly $50. And all I have is a freakin pair of fours. Listen, what's your name? Abdul, nice to meet you. Abdul, would you believe I took down that pot against two guys holding the same exactly thing? It's the analysis, man, and I'm really starting to feel like I play this game with my head. Dude, was that all crazy gibberish? YES! Doogie Howser was on Celebrity Poker Showdown last week, and he did lose on low pockets! Hilarious, I watched that episode. So you get what I'm saying, pocket 4's, right? Dude, thank you, here's $16 in $2 dollar bills and I want you to keep all of it. Here's why, okay? Get ready (counting off on fingers): it's 3 AM and you have the "here's-my-last-$6" Friday night bar shift; you arrived 2 minutes after I called Enricos and waited for me to say goodnight to my friends; you clearly take care of your cab with the potpourri and all; the A/C is cranked; you changed the station to classic rock when I got in (I'm wearing a 10-year old Further Festival concert Tee - close enough) and we heard one of my favorite songs by the Stones; and best of all, man, I feel like you get what happened in that hand. I stared down two accomplished players with low pockets and emerged victorious. Not because of stupidity, I know you know this, but because I truly felt it. Everything else in my life is askew, but that hand - THAT hand made my entire week. What can I say, it was a good night, and these $2 bills will make a nice story for your wife later on. Start a collection, hell, I don't know. (Shakes cabbies hand, punches fist, creates a mock-secret handshake with the guy, and he's laughing) Keep it real Abdul, and let me know if you ever want to play some poker, alright? $20 buy-ins. Peace in the Middle East, I'm out like the fat kid in dodge ball. (Exeunt - stage right)

Okay, what's my point here? On occasion, I'm a nightmare for cab drivers, though I like to think I'm somehow an interesting diversion for a guy in a boring job. Whatever the topic du jour that night at poker, that becomes my rhetoric for the night. My assumption that all New Yorkers think Bush is evil is completely wrong. I shouldn't assume that.

I have no idea where Mel Gibson was coming from, but I would guess the topic du jour was the Israel-Hezbollah conflict, and over several drinks Mel got into the same sort of blame-game conversation, the kind of conversation that results in such inflammatory statements as: "George W. Bush could die in a fire, his entire kitchen cabinet engulfed in flames, and I wouldn't shed a single tear. I'm serious! I'd throw a pajama party!" Or maybe he was on another substance. Or maybe he's just plain nuts. Who knows?

I am not excusing him from his actions or statements. As he conceded in his longer apology yesterday, he is a public figure who had already been called an anti-semite just a few years ago. Bigotry, of all kinds, is just plain wrong. It doesn't matter if the group that is being generalized is the majority or the minority. If he had said, "Republicans are responsible for all the wars in the world," or "The Christian Right is responsible for everything awful in this country. Hey police officer, are you a good Christian?" - That wouldn't have gotten the same type of press, I suspect. And knowing his belief system, it wouldn't have happened. But dissing Christians, Muslims, Scientologists... virtually any church-going culture - is pretty rampant. Surely they are to blame for the four years we have of Bushie, right? And for everything else that is bad in this country? At times I go there and make those blanket statements. And by the same measure, they are inflammatory and bigoted.

Back to the issue at hand, because I need to log off and hit the hay - Bigotry and prejudice are everywhere, but it has largely gone underground. "Political correctness," or whatever you want to call it, has worked on one level. People are less likely to be openly bigoted. It's not cool to make jokes about a group of people in a mixed crowds; generalizations are considered base thinking.

But let's not pretend it doesn't exist, or that Mel's comments are a unique sentiment; non-drunk people make inane cultural generalizations all the time. Our country, while integrated on the surface, has many hold-overs from 1950s thinking. I'd like to think my generation is light years beyond our parents, but what of my blanket statement against Southern Christian groups? This sort of thing is usually found in private, even secretive conversations, or worse in hard-to-prove situations of opportunity; certainly not from a guy like Mel Gibson, who blurts out this crap while being arrested for Tequila-drinking while driving. We've gotten to a point where diversity is ingrained in our collective consciousness. Anti-Semitism is as foreign to me as the fight for racial equality; a movement before my time. I grew up in a color-blind, religiously-accepting, "can't we all just get along" society; when I hear comments like this, I don't get enraged (naturally, I'm not the target), I just shake my head and can't believe bigotry is still an issue worth writing about.

Mel Gibson is a complete tool for his comments, and we will forever remember this incident. He deserves anything and everything that is coming to him. But as the Israel-Hezbollah conflict takes prominence, let's keep movie star Mel Gibson's drunken ramblings in perspective. He is, afterall, just some actor who happens to be good looking. Who gives a crap?

There are bigger things happening right now. Boycott his films? If you feel that way, fine. But let's not let it obscure the fact that World War III is brewing, and those of us against the war in Iraq are having a tough time verbalizing the sickness we feel with the U.S. sanctioning (and, I think we all fear, getting involved militarily) further conflict in the Middle East. Period. What are we doing there? How far does this escalate? Is Iran next? How does Israel play into all this? If in questioning this thing, I am labeled a bigot, I'm going to have a real problem with that.

I have a feeling the script polisher who has been working on Lethal Weapon 5 is searching the blogosphere for validation. In case that person finds my little section of the Internet, I have this to say: Good job, man. Just bump up the Renne Russo managing former-cop Chris Rock's R&B career storyline. Viola. $200 mill. easy. Next, do the art-house piece you've been thinking about. Oh, and kill off Martin Riggs. First 10 minutes. Make it an act of sacrifice. $700 mill. international and domestic.

Good work. Write your own ticket.

Child Prodigy Lost His Way, Sold Out, Got Bent

2006-07-31T21:39:00.000-04:00

It's the end of the month; a good time for a 'Wag' catchall laundry list. Feeling reflective. Too much for bullets - grant proposal-style... W00t! Let's do this thing.

CBS's 'How I Met Your Mother'
I totally missed this show during the 2005-2006 TV season. Sitcoms are rarely any damn good anymore. Maybe its just my current disposition, but this is a strangely addictive television programme (verily). I hate everyone on the show, make no mistake, but I can't seem to look away. Strike that; midget-lover Bob Saget narrates and Neil Patrick Harris is pretty hilarious as smarmy Barney Stinson. The star-crossed lovers stuff is fairly predictable, and the protagonist is the kind of guy you want to shove into traffic during rush hour.

I will probably TiVO it next season nonetheless, if only to get a little more Alyson Hannigan into my life and to see if Barney emerges as more than just a sidekick. For those who've skipped it (I don't blame you) - mix Vince Vaughn from 'Swingers' with that average-looking, slightly annoying swinger at work who gets by on his chuptzah - and you got Barney. "Haaaaave you met Ted?" The awful/brilliant wingman you look good next to by comparison. I'm glad to see him overcome the child-star label. I wonder what Wanda - Lisa Dean Ryan - has done lately... Hey, she was born in Ireland! She was an early crush. Vinny had a supporting role on the Sopranos.

"Doogie Likes to Air Dry?"
Funny story - I saw N.P.H. at the Equinox/Columbus Circle back when I was a member. I found myself changing at the same time as him for about two weeks, with a locker directly next to his no matter where I moved (yeah, exactly). This was around the time of 'Assassins' was in rehearsals and I'd heard some stories. When you feel like you're being followed by several sets of piercing eyes in the men's dressing room, it's good to keep your head down, change quickly and have a couple extra towels at all times.

Long story short, I did end up mistakenly catching a glimpse of "the 'Doog" - he's the type who walks to the scale sans covering. Not that I intentionally looked, believe me; I've peed at urinals next to Anthony Hopkins and Leonard Nimoy and kept my eyes on the prize, so I'm used to that sort of weird moment. But accidents happen.

On a completely unrelated note: I saw N.P.H. on Celebrity Poker Showdown lose to Mekhi Phifer. He gave it a good run, but he simply didn't have the cards to compete.

Let's see, who else did I encounter at Equinox from January 2004 to March 2005?

Elizabeth Berkeley, who is just as tall as you think and is stunning in person. I mean, a million jokes went through my head ("I'm So Excited!"), but she effortlessly did 8.5 on a treadmill next to me for 30 minutes. Hard core. I caught the sounds of the Pixies from her first-generation IPod, followed by what I believe to be Elastica and definitely several Clash tunes. She's okay in my book.

I asked Stephen Baldwin if he was finished with the assisted chin lift, and his trainer said they had a couple sets left - "It could be a while." I stood nearby and stared them down as if to say - "You were lucky to get 'The Usual Suspects,' you've done nothing since and I want on that machine." I think I made them both nervous enough to adandon the set and quit for the day. He left sweat circles; fluid that was just two degrees from Kim Basinger.

Through a colleague, I managed to secure an Equinox membership during the very first week they were issuing them; they had yet to schedule dump trucks for 10 Columbus Circle and AOL still had a bright future. We'd just begun the war with Iraq. I hadn't yet considered switching jobs. They were offering introductory memberships for $79/mo. for a year, which given the newness and high-profile nature of the place was reasonable, but required fewer Starbucks runs. I won't lie; I was intrigued by the preppy-fabulousness of it all. Isn't this why I left Jacksonville? The gym was designed to be their corporate flagship and it showed. Two colleagues joined thereafter with me as a reference, resulting in two things:

1. Netted me two free months of membership (thru 3/05) and two free 60-minute deep-tissue massages, which convinced me that true euphoria can be attained without the aid of alternative substances;

2. My sales rep, to whom I referred those colleagues, sought me out to tell me who was/had been in the gym that day, asking me to explain the structure of Lincoln Center and whether Jazz at Lincoln Center had teeth (I told him they absolutely did). I threw him some cultural references and (even at the time, public via the NYT) info about the LC renovation - which I heard him dutifully drop into casual conversation when I was around. I got free weeklong memberships for everybody I brought in there (15 people?), even friends from out-of-state. I felt somehow important and connected.

He invited me to a couple parties and I went to neither. One was at the launch party for a restaunrant at the Mandarin (I know, I was a fool - I think it was Asiate, and I've been back there with houseguests since, this story a nice anecdote and egg-on-face cautionary tale); the other at the Central Park West private residence of someone who referred something like 50 clients. Clearly these were bad decisions. My twisted thinking at the time was that they were duds, and he only told me to get bodies in the room. Also, my thoughts at the time were centered on one thing; an unhealthy, dead-end concept as it turns out - and that clouded everything. I heard that guy is currently in the Las Vegas hospitality business, so, you know, take those opportunities as they come. You never know who you might meet, and who might hook you up with a weekend of Texas Hold'Em in Vegas.

Several lessons learned - 1. Don't look at Neil Patrick Harris no matter how many times he coughs and clears his throat; 2. Go to the weird party with the shiny people if you have nothing better to do; and, 3. Always tell Elizabeth Berkeley you admire her body of work if presented with the opportunity.

Astoria is My Home: Pssst... Stop Patronizing Our Beer Garden
Recalling the circumstances of the Equinox experience brings me back to those first two years in NYC. I can admit now that I didn't really know what I was doing. I'm truly lucky everything worked out the way it did. My Manhattan-envy was strong at the time - not really knowing anybody in Astoria - and a couple times I very nearly scrapped the whole thing and tried to find roommates on Craigslist. Stupid idea. In most cases, I was just overreacting to the snobbery.

To wit: I went on a horrible pseudo-date back then with a lawyer-to-be who asked me if I was done with the Stairclimber by touching me on the arm and flaring her eyes. My confidence was at an all time high. Drinks after work at the sort of place someone has to show you to have any idea it exists. She all but but asked for the check when she found out what I did for a living, unimpressed with my pedigree and especially my Astoria address. "Yeah, I work in the performing arts... uhhh, no, not an actor... fundraising... one-bedroom in Astoria... Queens... yeah... yup, the Beer Garden... Never been? To Queens? At all? Ten years in the City? Wow..." I suggested a second drink, to her amazement, and tried to convince her. Came home that night and started looking on Craiglist. How lame, to let some snooty chick ruin my good vibes.

Worse was the temptation to head south to the "sanctioned" borough. I know most people my age covet the Brooklyn lifestyle, with its hipster enclaves, underground music scene, and... and... look, I'll be honest, I don't know crap about Brooklyn. I've been there, sure, but it's a big, spread-out borough and I could really care less about it. I don't look down on anyone for choosing to live wherever the hell he/she wants to. If you can find affordable rent (by whatever standards you choose) in a neighborhood that brings you joy, God bless ya. The attitude of many Manhattanites and Brooklynites I've met, though, is that the very notion of living in Queens is somehow deplorable, lowly and beneath them. "Ohhh, you live in Astooooria... is it temporary?"

Give me a break. I think every neighborhood in the greater metropolitan area pales in comparison to mine. We all feel this way, no matter where you live. Or you don't and you move. When you find where you want to be, you own your neighborhood and want to protect it and defend it. It's the New York experience.

Happy August. Long live Elvis.

It's NOT the Stork?!? Dude...

2006-07-29T22:27:00.000-04:00

Author Robbie Harris has written a book, and Candlwick Press has published it, that "graphically describes sex." And for some reason this makes people nervous... or outraged... or titillated. Okay, probably not titillated... it was written for an audience of 4-year olds.

Really? We need to be teaching children that young about the "ins and outs" of sex?

Maybe so. I've never been a fan of deliberately misleading children. Even when it isn't deliberate, children absorb some pretty twisted notions of why things are the way they are. And when they find out - say, in kindergarten on the playground at Plumosa Elementary School in Boynton Beach, FL circa 1982 - that newborns don't come from "that slutty baby factory next door," it can be kind of traumatizing.

Floyd Landis:Fact and Opinion

2006-07-27T22:22:00.000-04:00

Just got off the phone with my buddy of mine, the most knowledgeable cycling enthusiast I know. He's my go-to guy for perspective about a lot of things, and tonight's 'Wag' is only a somewhat balanced view because of his informed, devil's advocate responses to my knee-jerk, reactionary sticking-it-to-the-man conspiracy theories. In fact, in parts of this rant (whenever the writing appears lucid and well thought out), I am merely attempting to record his thoughts on the subject.

For starters, here's a sample of what I was planning to lead with tonight: "Today, a great injustice was heaped upon an American in a foreign land by an organization that has fought to discredit our heroes for the last twenty years. Sound familiar? If you thought I was talking about something pertaining to our involvement in the Middle East, I'm sad to say you are not far off in sentiment, if not in content."

Yeah, I know, way over the top. I've calmed down a bit. I snapped at someone at work today who innocently brought the subject up and I feel badly about that. I all but yelled "innocent until proven guilty!" Why have I gotten so worked up over a sport I didn't even really follow until last year? I aim to answer that question tonight.

For those who haven't heard (though you will likely be inundated with it soon enough) - American cyclist and 2006 Tour de France winner Floyd Landis is having his name dragged through the mud, his reputation ruined, because of sketchy details regarding the ratio of testosterone to epitestosterone in a urine sample taken following his historic come-from-waaaaay-behind effort on Stage 17 of the Tour de France . The T/E-T ratio after the Alpine Stage 17 has not been released, nor have any details regarding his ratio at other points in the race. The results of the second sample taken at the same time - they always take two - has yet to even be tested. We know nothing else as fact. "Initial tests found higher-than-normal levels of testosterone" is all we know.

Here's a five things I do know as fact:

FACT: Landis did not test positive for steroids. This is the popular assumption in this post-BALCO climate when media outlets across the country ("Tour de Fraud" anybody?) simplify headlines to:

Landis Suspended for Flunking Drug Test - ABC News
Landis Tests Positive for Banned Substances - LA Times
Tour Champ Landis Failed Initial Doping Test - NPR

FACT: His ratio has not been released to the public. Without getting into too much science here, the T/E-T ratio for most people is 1:1. Some people have higher ratios for normal reasons. Cyclists, because they are athletes, usually generate higher levels of testosterone. The ratio limit for this test was lowered this year from 6:1 to 4:1. So if Landis tested at 5:1, which was legal last year, he would fail the test. Since we don't know what that ratio after Stage 17 was, any speculation about it is just that - conjecture. Because I saw it referenced in other articles, I searched for any features published today that might offer alternative reasons for increased testosterone levels and all I could find was this article.

FACT: Virtually every cyclist who has challenged the results of the test has won his case and kept his title. But not before public opinion has cast an ominous shadow of doubt, ruining what should be a period of celebration. It is believed many of those accused were indeed guilty but figured out a way to explain it all away by, say, paying a doctor to lie.

FACT: Cycling is probably the dirtiest sport out there. Just before the Tour de France began, 9 cyclists were banned from participating due to their connection to Madrid sports doctor Eufemiano Fuentes. His clinic was raided in May and investigators found blood packets with the names of 56 cyclists and some of the sports biggest stars, including strong contenders Jan Ullrich and Ivan Basso. Blood doping boosts the amount of red blood cells that carry oxygen. They don't test cyclist's blood, and it is believed the practice is rampant.

FACT: And, to me, most importantly: Landis flatly denies that he took anything illegal or against Tour rules. He said yesterday: "All I'm asking for is that I be given a chance to prove I'm innocent. Cycling has a traditional way of trying people in the court of public opinion before they get a chance to do anything else.'' I agree. Big time.

Okay, those were facts. Time for opinion:

1. Until we get more information, it is morally reprehensible to condemn this man.

2. The French have had it out for American cyclists for years. And by "the French," I do mean quite literally the entire country. I didn't know until my conversation tonight that the race was established by a French newspaper 100 or so years ago. The 1st place jersey is yellow because the banner of the newspaper was yellow. It is THE French sport, a national event far bigger than the Super Bowl for Americans. A Frenchman has won the race 36 times in its history, but has failed to capture the title every year since 1985. Greg LeMond became the first American to win the contest the following year. Lance Armstrong won it 7 times in a row. In the last 21 years, an American has won the title 11 times. This is a fact that seriously pisses off the host country. Some feel Tour officials had a vendetta against Lance Armstrong, whose character was likewise called into question time and again regarding doping allegations, all debunked.

3. I am not naive to the possibility that Landis did in fact cheat. Given the history and politics at work here, I reserve judgment on any accusations made in any sport played on a world-wide stage. He may have cheated, but I will not jump to a conclusion until all the facts are laid bare.

4. The American media covering these allegations are seriously dropping the ball. I was reminded during my conversation tonight that the day Landis won the tournament was the same day Tiger Woods had his emotional win at the British Open. Tiger broke down in tears after securing a win on the 18th hole, it being his first win since his father's death. The American press, who hadn't really given the Tour de France much coverage anyway, made Tiger the lead the next morning. I'll put my entire life savings down on the bet that Landis is the cover story on the sports section in every newspaper in the country tomorrow morning. Muckraking reporters, who could care less that he had won the tournament just four days ago, called his mother yesterday in rural Pennsylvania and published some pretty crazy quotes from a woman unaccustomed to using a telephone, much less giving an interview. Where is the journalistic integrity in that?

5. The sad part is, Landis was a helluva story before all this talk of doping. Growing up in a strictly-religious Mennonite family in rural Pennsylvania, the guy left home to pursue his dream against his parents' wishes, telling him he was risking eternal damnation. Despite his near-Amish beginnings, his strong work ethic and determination helped him become one of cycling's best. He fractured his hip in a crash while training in 2003, and as a result, he will have to have hip replacement surgery later this year. He rides in pain. Much of his training involves therapy for his hip. Shades of Lance Armstrong's beating cancer and winning it all.

Okay, that's my take on the accusations, longwinded as it is. But it's only part of why I was so riled by this turn of events. For the last week or so, Floyd Landis was kind of a personal hero of mine. I'm new enough to the sport that my mind didn't immediately turn to thoughts of cheating when he made his unbelievable comeback during Stage 17. Instead, I thought it was perhaps the greatest individual sports achievement of my lifetime - the sheer fortitude it took to do what he did astounded me. Reading about his upbringing and his hip condition, I was struck by how few real heroes there are anymore. I actually spent time over the weekend thinking about this very subject. "But you know what," I thought, "there will always be a few Floyd Landis-types to renew my belief in the power of the human spirit."

My parent's generation exposed the seedy underbelly of American politics. My generation seems bent on tearing everything else down, taking our shared pessimism to the Nth degree where public opinion is traded like fact. Our new "heroes" are not people who accomplish great acts or think great thoughts. Opportunists have embraced this "tear it down" culture, invited the media into their lives and will do whatever it takes to keep them there. We make Gods out of mortals and then revel in their misery when its time to tear them down. It somehow makes us feel better about ourselves.

But I don't think it really does. I feel idealism slipping away - my own, my generation's, the next generation's. And that, ultimately, makes me angry... and sort of depressed.

I hope he's found innocent.

"Where have you gone Joe DiMaggio, our nation turns its lonely eyes to you." - Paul Simon

Vacation: The Lost Art

2006-07-26T21:50:00.000-04:00

Sometimes you come across something on-line that hits too close to home and it just nails you in the gut.

According to a survey conducted by the Opinion Research Corporation, the number of people who bring their work with them on their vacations has doubled in the last ten years, from 23% in 1995 to 46% this year. Worse, only 61 percent of Americans use all of the vacation time they earn from their jobs.

When I quit The Juilliard School in March 2004, I left with more than a month of unused vacation time. I thought it was pretty cool. I received a full month of pay as a send-off, and I bought a couple of sweet tailored suits with the windfall. Now? I just think it's sad. In fact, I had more than a month of paid leave, so I took off early and vacationed into my next job. Wooo-hooo! I didn't go anywhere. I worried about the first day of my new job and studied the organization's materials.

Isn't that sort pathetic? Rather than take a break from the daily grind, I willingly subjected myself to endless five-day cubicle prison. I could have taken a week off here and there just to do something different, like walk across every major bridge in NYC, or camp out in front of the Dakota in hopes of getting Yoko to sign my Two Virgins LP, or attend 9-straight baseball games in prime-choice box seats at Yankee and Shea stadiums, or build a 292:1 replica of Stonehenge out of gray Legos, or taken the Chinatown bus to D.C. and photographed the politico bars, where the real deals go down... you know, normal stuff... the kind of activities that have been on the napkin to-do list forever but remain undone. Hell, there are areas of NYC I've never visited, places just five miles from where I sit now.

But, to be honest, I'm sick of the City, with its unrelenting pulse and clogged arteries. I need a break, and not the kind that comes with motherly guilt. For the first time in my life, I am taking an entire week off in August and, among other jolly pursuits, joining some of my closest friends in Cape Cod. That sunset above comes courtesy of Sandwich, Massachusetts. We have a cottage on the beach. It's less than a month away and I can hardly wait. I intend to leave everything, EVERYTHING, behind.

I think in terms of fiscal years that end June 30, so this month is a fresh start for me. This year (7/1/06-6/30/07), things are going to be very different. Many plates will be simultaneously spinning - writing here more often, mapping out the book, occasional Thursday night gigs at Sunswick on 35th Ave and 35th St, volunteering with a small non-profit arts organization, weekend travel to the Hamptons, exercise with an eye toward that other side of the closet, building a 'coalition of the willing' to launch CrappyApple... and this idea I've been mulling to facilitate new experiences...

I want to infiltrate community groups via MeetUp.com - assimilating into urban enclaves with interests completely foreign to me, like the NYC Atheist Group (393 members) or the NYC Black Professionals Lunch Club (282 members). I won't fully lampoon their interests, but I'm definitely looking for unique experiences. I wonder if they have a group for glue-sniffing free-thinkers?

If Hunter S. Thompson has posthumously taught me anything - and his seemingly effortless style of writing and balls-to-the-wall Gonzo ethos has inspired me deeply - it's that one must live to write. Passive observation isn't good enough. And if it's an uncomfortable experience, it will make for a better literary exercise.

Stay tuned 'Wag' readers... all that came before was prelude. "When the going gets weird, the weird turn pro." Time to change the laces on my big boy shoes.

Power to the People! (Right On)

2006-07-25T19:07:00.000-04:00

I live in Astoria, Queens; a lovely little edge city just a stones throw from Manhattan. Astoria, for those of you out-of-towners, is a largely Greek neighborhood that, through the miracle of gentrification, now has several Starbucks and a Cold Stone Creamery. The neighborhood has changed in my time here, and not necessarily all for the better (see: Starbucks), but I still think its a great place to live.

Thankfully, my rent is virtually the same as it was when I moved here in 2002, and it was low then. I know of comparable apartments going for twice as much quite literally next door. I'm not bragging, rather I'm giving you some insight into why I think Astoria is so damn great. It's safe, close, cheap and comfortable. And these days, nearly all of my closest friends live within a six block radius. Manhattan envy? Not this kid.

In the spirit of protecting my little corner of the world, I worry tonight for the hundreds of businesses left in the dark by the 9-day power outage that continues to impact Long Island City, Astoria, Woodside and Sunnyside. Any business that works with perishables is screwed. I read an article today that quoted $20,000 in losses for one fishmonger (actual word usage), with ConEd only willing to pick up about $7,000 of the losses. And those that have re-opened are going to have a couple weeks of leery customers wondering about the product. It is bad, and I wouldn't be surprised to see many small businesses go under almost immediately without some sort of emergency aid.

Even now, there are Con Edison workers on my block working through the night to repair whatever damage was done by the invisible worms that have been eating through the lines. Or was it a demon fire? Hezbollah terrorists? Can we blame it on the French? Those of us who live in the area haven't been given any reason for the outage. The cops, who are now stationed on every corner, don't seem to know. The ConEd guys ignore any questions (I've tried). 100 degree heat and substation failure are the only official causes. Those who are in the dark still have no timetable for when they might recharge their cell phones. It's a mess.

Full disclosure: I really didn't have any problems, and I'm right down the street from businesses that have been dark for days. The first couple days there were brownouts. I didn't run my air conditioner. I unplugged unecessary electronics. I feel I did my part.

On Sunday, I turned every electronic item on in my apartment, cranked the A/C, wrapped myself in Christmas lights, stuck a knife in an electrical socket and basked in an orgy of wasted electricity. Nothing happened - not even a flicker. I think the worst is over.

Queens local elected officials are calling for the head of ConEd's CEO Kevin Burke. The politicos argue that ConEd woefully underestimated the extent of the damage initially, and have been slow to respond. On Tuesday, Mayor Bloomberg praised the response from ConEd and asked for finger pointing to wait, leaving the Queens lawmakers stunned.

The blame game has begun. Political careers can be made a destroyed by situations like this, especially in Queens. Just check out Mayor John V. Lindsay's 1969 reelection campaign, which many feel was decided by angry Queens voters who held him personally accountable for not getting snow plows out to Queens during the blizzard in February of that year.

I take a middle-of-the-road view, which as someone unaffected, I am able to do without regret. If it turns out ConEd did something wrong (say, ignoring warning signs or deliberately misleading customers), they should create a mechanism for helping in a meaningful way. Right now, if you lost food due to spoilage while the power was out, you can submit a claim to ConEd. They will reimburse individuals up to $350 for spoiled food, and businesses can claim up to $7,000. For the guy who lost $20,000 in clams and oysters, that helps but, it isn't enough.

Demanding the scalp of the figureheads is just political posturing. Right now, these elected types would be better off rolling up their sleeves and getting on the ice delivery trucks. Not to make the typical comparison, but Giuliani is beloved not because he got in front of cameras and demanded retaliation, but because he was the calm, powerful leader in a time of turmoil.

In any case, other cities have it far worse than we do. More than 200,000 people are estimated to be without power in St. Louis tonight. Rolling blackouts are expected throughout the entire state of California, and they don't really know what might happen there. Gov. Schwarzenegger has suggested turning over the control of all California utilities to Skynet.

Call me crazy, but I think I trust him.

PS: A post each day until August 1. I've been neglecting...

Fear and Loathing in Pittsburgh - Part III (and final)

2006-07-18T21:34:00.000-04:00

On assignment in the afterlife, Hunter S. Thompson brings part III of his three-part series on the All-Star Game held in Pittsburgh this week:

A misconception of major sporting events is the supposed economic impact for the host city. Team executives flaunt studies demonstrating millions in potential out-of-state revenues. Local businesses pressure city commissioners. The city spends millions in tax revenue on parades and potato sack races. Hotels are filled, bars are patronized, and the whole shitfactory wakes up with a hangover when it's over. When I left a few days later, I half-expected the rotted corpse of Robert Moses to make a special command appearance, tapdancing naked to the beat of wild expectations popping like balloons.

The Strip District comprises Pittsburgh's "hip scene," or some such overused journalistic term. One gets the impression that, during any other week, the area is dominated by frat boys and jockettes. The alley in which I ducked to sinfully indulge smelled of piss and garbage.

Quickly and chronologically, because this was meant to be two-paged essay for print. The premise - three bars, three fights, and only one actually involving me.

11:38 PM
The first incident occurred at the rum station at the west end of the Strip, nearest to downtown hotels. I aped as a Seattle Post Intelligencer sports writer in town covering the Japanese phenom Irchiro. I knew attacking the prospects of a winning season for the Steelers post-helmetgate would be the quickest way to bring the desired violence. Did Big Ben actually enter the endzone? Does it matter? To many in this hole, it was the difference between a meaningful life and unthinkable misery.

The guy I chose to serve as my last-minute mark turned to me after the deed was done, as if seeking validation. He said he thought I was "not from around here," and then he jabbed my ribs, his meaty arm suddenly wrapped around my neck like a vice. It was drunkenly aggressive, meant to let me know that he could easily have taken me down too. I played his wicked game. I did four quick shots of "One for the Thumb" with him, which tasted like sweat, but it settled my nerves. The room was spinning, my mouth a mush of immovable parts. I showed him my watch - a Timex - and noted that the end was nigh.

In front of several witnesses, this villager fielded most of the questions from the PPD who were monitoring the area for debauchery. The subject of my experiment was out cold, his friends had abandoned him, and he could offer no alternative tale to the one currently being spun. I was not required to show identification - the half-hidden plastic credentials around my neck served as my Get-Out-of-Jail Free card.

The poor bloodied bastard, his jaw askew, was loaded into an ambulance, out of sight and out of our lives. I secured an interview with my muscular mark - who proved amazingly lucid and non-evasive. It was, in fact, the most efficient impromptu interview I'd conducted in years. We understood each other, bonded by the experience. My opinion of these natives would teeter back and forth all night. For the time being, I considered them my lead, if not my story.

12:20 AM
The second incident played out nearly the same way - at least what I remember of it. I was on the worst kind of trip. How I stood erect I do not know. I vaguely recall loudly declaring Myron Cope the Anti-Christ.

"Repent, sinners! I forewarn you whom ye shall fear: Fear him, which after he hath killed you hath power to cast into hell; yea, I say unto you, Fear him!"

I was thrown to the curb before the ensuing mêlée. Christians were injured, their elective martyrdom a kind of soul cleansing. Zero regret.

1:54 AM
I arrived at the Downtown Hilton on foot, a considerable walk, and proceeded to the elevators. I'd lost several personal belongings in the 2 hours since I'd left, but the essentials were intact. I entered the elevator, pressed the largest button and pulled the rag from my pocket. I noticed I was not alone. "Seasonal allergies," I mumbled. When I came to, the doors were opening on the revolving rooftop glass-encased lounge. I was underdressed, the maitre de informed. I showed him my credentials and a rolled-up Andrew Jackson. He fetched me a blazer that fell just below the cuff of my Bermuda shorts.

The City of Pittsburgh had elected to extend legal alcohol consumption in restaurants and bars to 4AM during All-Star week. The lounge was packed as a result of the euphoria felt after a particularly well-fought home run derby. I recognized several players and their wives, MLB executives and prominent local names like Fisher and Heinz. I'd somehow stumbled my way into the hornets nest! It was then that I realized the lounge was not actually revolving, nor had it ever been. I found a seat at the end of the bar, away from the circus, and ordered a margarita neat.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Starched sheets, too starched. The VA hospital in Louisville. Teaching James to tie his shoes. Too tight. Headlock. Smothering. The last cigarette, extinguished. Tightness in the chest. Is this the end? Is this how it all ends?

A knock from somewhere else, hard, like artillery. Wet. Splash. Slippery. Drowned.

"Wake up, dammit, we're going to miss the continental breakfast." Steadman handed me one of the complimentary IC Lights from the minibar and exited.

My eyelids were fused together with an alien substance, sticky to the touch. The more I wiped the worse it burned. Pouring half of the brew on my face, my vision was slowly restored. On the table next to my bed was a note from hotel management. I was to call down immediately.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

I never entered the press box, never drank from the media wetbar. Steadman did, however, and he graciously netted us the first-hand perspective we needed. I sat on the 147th step of that stairwell, divisible by 7, and considered my options. When I had decided, the game was already over. As always, America lost.

Fear and Loathing in Pittsburgh - Part II

2006-07-17T19:07:00.000-04:00

On assignment in the afterlife, Hunter S. Thompson brings part II of his three-part series on the All-Star Game held in Pittsburgh this week:

As we made our way toward the entrance to the Park, I saw more armpit hair than I care to report. The sleeveless jersey was ubiquitous, and with the heat in the 'Burgh approaching hellish proportions, many of these fans had gone sans undergarments. A gaggle approached the ramp of the escalator like gumballs approaching a great metal maw; a twisted question mark leading to salvation in the sky. These fanaticals wore the ugliest of countenances. They'd waited all season to flaunt their status, but they hadn't dressed for the occasion. Just showing up at this pricey event was enough. Of course, many were season ticket holders, and they held the darkest looks. They'd suffered through a miserable season, and now their own private stadium was being taken over by unfamiliar winged bats; out-of-towners who had already checked out of their hotels.

I'm not one to appreciate such crowds, and this situation was no different. I elbowed a young man for grabbing my side. Steadman spied an under-used staircase and we lost no time disengaging from the shoulder-to-shoulder mob.

For some unGodly reason, PNC Park was built with the press box roughly 4 miles above the homeplate. Our journey up the staircases scolded me to smoke less and do more calesthentics. I don't have the caved-in ashtray physique of so many others my age, but my inner workings are poor. I was wheezing barely a third of the way up, and despite signs asking politely to abstain, I stopped to fill my cigarette holder and light one up. I felt instantly better.

A beat writer I recognized from the local paper stopped on his way down. He'd been at the hotel bar the night before, when I approached Bill Mazeroski and asked him if he was still proud to have cried like a baby during his Hall of Fame induction ceremony. I thought there might be trouble in that stairwell, but he continued on, shaking his head. Dijon mustard. Between a rock and a hardplace; and definitely churning copy. He assisted on the lead (read = wrote) for a pominent national that night after the AL comeback - the original draft and supporting copy having been written from a David Wright-as-MVP angle. Fools. He proved to be the most honest, tapped-in guy in the room. Or so I heard. I avoided him.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

I had no intention of watching more than half-an-inning of the game. The best baseball stories (or so a military friend of me told me when I was starting out) are based on the box score and word-of-mouth accounts of the great plays. "No one wants to know what really happened." In other words, the alocholic-and-junkie-approved coverage. I found the method was nearly foolproof.

His words: "The box score is baseball at purest. Any game where a hitter makes more than 600 attempts, or a pitcher logs more than 250 innings - statistics simply take over for both the casual and die hard fan alike. A guy hitting .300 and a guy hitting .295 are separated by maybe a couple hits. Which are you more interested in as a reader? Lead with numbers, kid. A unique take for you would be to somehow find a way to lead with the number of Army Corp of Civil Engineers leaving the profession, or the number of outmoded levees in New Orleans proper. Lead with numbers - no one can resist a good, round number. Still, as your commanding officer, I suggest you just adapt the press release we were given."

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

7 is a prime number. 147 is not. I counted by 7s to keep it interesting. I was left without my typical meager remainder. 147 steps, easily divisible by the number I arbitrarily decided upon just minutes before. A sign of positive events to unfold? Not likely.

I took the final three flights of the ever-rising deathtrap two at a time. I did this for effect, sure, to prove to myself that I was still virile. At the same time, it was necessary to slow down my stride as I released gallons of sweat. The exertion was powerfully taxing my tricky right lung. Steadman had turned to check on me and, watching me climb the final steps, insisted I retrace my last few. He claimed to have found "his perfect cover," a phrase I would hear multiple times that week. After five minutes of holding a dashing pose (gulping down air), he stopped. I mistakenly asked to see the rough sketch and he proudly held it in front of me. I was a heat-stroked drug abuser suffering fits of pure Beijing during the high season of Christendom. The sketch was perfect; the sort of thing I'd appreciate gracing the hallway leading to my bathroom or torture chamber. At the very least it was truthful, and I didn't think I'd see much of that anytime soon. Instead of telling him so, I growled and pushed past him. Such was our relationship. He promptly ripped the sketch in half and I was relieved.

I was severely off-kilter entering that morbid press reception. At a time when I most needed my faculties - to trust in my professionalism and journalistic wherewithal - they abandoned me in a blitzkrieg of phlegm and spilled beer rapidly warming. I recalled nothing leading up to that moment. Squat. I'd forgotten everything - including the altercations in the Strip District the night before.

Now with some perspective, I will gladly admit this for the official record: I instigated several fights with homegrown-Pittsburghers, but at the last possible minute, I would pawn the brute off on someone I did not know, someone enjoying his time. I had the notion to do it when I saw a 1st class passenger on the flight down laying into a middleaged stewardess. His wife sat there with a wry smile, and I knew she'd wound him up. Success! You manipulate better than the rest! Here's your wings! Thank you for flying Eastern!

Sure, one could blame it on the five gin and tonics I'd thrown back on the 1.5 hour flight from Kennedy. I would contend that I was in Double-Decker 1st Class ("go professional, lose your mind, you've earned the upper echelon/level"). The nuts were mixed and lightly salted - the G&T's pure heaven. I asked for a margarita on descent, a request that was unfulfilled. I left no tip.

It could also have had something to do with the piss-poor reds I'd taken earlier. My "Pittsburgh connection" turned out to be a part-time German instructor and novice puppeteer training with a local childrens television program host. We had a common friend - an improv actor on the Lower East Side - and he came right over. The first 3 hours of any multi-night stay are the best times to snow me with utter garbage. I am just glad to be on the ground. Turbulence does not agree with me, mind-lubricated or not.

Nope, it wasn't booze, or drugs or even boredom. It was a minor experiment. To avoid taking responsibility for that evening would not only be a complete lie, it would keep me from relating the following events. I admit that I forced these events. If you had any sense, you would stop reading this now. This is neither news, nor opinion. Turn to Page 47 and read about the fabulous marketing talents of the great OJ Simpson instead.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Continue to Part III of 'Fear and Loathing in Pittsburgh'

Fear and Loathing in Pittsburgh

2006-07-14T15:59:00.000-04:00

On assignment in the afterlife, Hunter S. Thompson brings his unique view to the All-Star Game held in Pittsburgh this week:

Pittsburgh is a town built by steel and coal at the furthest reaches of the decay. Is there something wrong with this typewriter? I had meant to type "decade," but is my typographical error actually a non sequitur? I won't quibble with such nonsense, though the phrase reminds me of why I'm in this dastardly burgh in the first place.

I was handed my assignment to cover the All-Star Game by André Laguerre himself, his final "screw you" before hightailing it back to France with his frog tail between his legs. He's a decent man, lest I be accused of hating the French, but for the managing editor of a sports magazine to wear an ascot in July is unbecoming. At my side was Steadman, my constant illustrator and the only man I've known able to hold my gun in one hand and a fifth of Jim Beam in the other and not completely lose his shit. The day before I packed my bag and jumped on a winged beast to the city at the confluence of four great rivers - the Ohio, the Alligator, the Hairymongo and a swill beer they call Iron City. I should check my facts, but I believe this was in the dossier Laguerre handed me before the raid.

PNC Park is a baseball lovers dream, and as I found myself surrounded by a whirling mass of beer-drinking jesuits with bad ideas and weird faces, I realized how quickly that dream could become a nightmare. They were everywhere, wearing the prescribed uniform of smug expressions and Brut aftershave. A man tried to sell me his lone ticket for $4,000. I pointed at my press pass and journeyed further into the throng. My intial interviews did not go well. In attempting to put my crooked finger on the pulse of the proceedings, I found nary a willing vein.

Jesus Christmas, these bastards insist on baseball talk, as if the whole of the world were filtered through the diabolical doings of the hometown team's ownership group. Who doesn't long for the days of milkmen delivering their froth, fathers teaching their sons the rules of engagement, and a true and shared belief in the goodness of mankind. It's not only ridiculous to be conjuring such methods during a time of Nixon naybobbery and the catchall pathos of the 1970s, it's downright insane! Who does these things? Where do they live? What drugs are they imbibing? And where can I get my hands on some? Steadman and I were eager to learn, so we gathered our courage and press passes and made for the media bar on the Clemente level. At least there, amongst the unkept heathens, we would find comfort from the storm of yellowed souls.

Part II

National League Loses - Again...

2006-07-11T23:37:00.000-04:00

The National League lost to the dreaded American League tonight in the 9th inning of the All-Star Game. This marks the 11th consecutive season the NL hasn't gotten it done (10 losses and one very infamous tie). The NL had won every All-Star Game the great city of Pittsburgh had previously hosted (1994, 1959, 1974 and 1994). Nice streak. Broken.

The Pirates' representatives (Jason Bay and Freddy Sanchez) played most of the game, with Bay starting and going 7 innings and Freddy a mid-game replacement. Jason had a nice single. Freddy made a great defensive play. The fans cheered.

It was a boring game. They usually are. However, there was a very nice tribute to the great former-Pirate Roberto Clemente who died in a plane crash in 1972 while on his way to assist earthquake victims in Nicaragua. A selfless, gifted ballplayer, he became an idol of his native Puerto Rico and a really good reason to know that a team called the Pittsburgh Pirates even exists. His wife and sons were on hand to accept the Commissioner's Historic Achievement Award on his behalf. Unfortunately, that meant we had to endure the vocal stylings of MLB Commish Bud Selig. He's a joke. The award bestowed posthumously on Clemente is not.

Keep in mind - I love Roberto Clemente even though I was not even born when he died. As a lifelong Pirates fan, I inherit the team's legacy and history, and Clemnte is perhaps the greatest Pirate player ever on-and-off the field.

A group called Hispanics Across America has petitioned Major League Baseball to retire Clemente's Number 21 in order to "recognize the growing status of Latin American ballplayers in the U.S. national pastime at a time when Hispanic immigrants are asserting their rights in U.S. society amid a political debate about immigration policy."

I'm not really a big fan of retiring numbers in the first place, especially across the entire sport. I completely get the reasoning behind retiring Jackie Robinson's 42 - he broke the color barrier after all. He endured racism no one of this generation could possible understand and should be mentioned with Martin Luther King and Rosa Parks as visible leaders of the equality movement. Branch Rickey, the Dodger president deserves some credit too, for aspiring to desegregate the sport. He was also an opportunist who saw all that talent in the Negro League as game-changing. And he was right.

He also drafted Clemente, the first Hispanic player drafted. And RC became a great symbol for many people. But he didn't endure the same hardship, relatively speaking, that Jackie Robinson did. And where would this end? What about the first Japanese MLB player, Hideo Nomo? At what point do you stop using a sport to make political statements?

So let players wear the number with pride, honoring the player personally. The rightfield wall at PNC Park in Pittsburgh is 21 feet high in honor of the Great #21. There's a brilliant statue of him outside the park. He has an entire section at the Baseball Hall of Fame. Let's honor the great man he was to the game of baseball and look past the political ramifications of his heritage.

Cakewalk: Hardly a Piece of Cake

2006-07-06T23:05:00.000-04:00

I bought Cakewalk Music Creator 3 today. It's a program for home recording and it ain't exactly intuitive. I'm starting to get the hang of it, though, and will hopefully spend some time this weekend working on a couple recordings.

Rather than do my traditional X-mas mix this year (for the fifth consecutive year), I'd really like to make my own holiday recording. That's what I'm building toward. I decided last Christmas that I really wanted to do it, and with the year more than half-way through, I figured I'd best get going.

Hence the Cakewalk program. Despite all the numerous bells and whistles (and there are tons of them), the base program isn't crazy difficult to use. But I'm realizing this is a painstaking process if you want it to turn out well.

"Forgetfulness" - Rough Track

2006-07-05T00:46:00.000-04:00

Ahhhh... yeah. My first attempt at this sort of thing. It's called "Forgetfulness."

PSA: Sun and Alcohol

2006-07-04T15:42:00.000-04:00

I am reminded, again, that sun and alcohol are a bad combo. Here's an article about it, as if anyone really needs science to reinforce this bit of obviousness.

Prolonged exposure to the sun, or heat, causes dehydration. The increased level of alcohol in the system, combined with the loss of fluids, leads to a rapid transition into the bloodstream. So, you know, you're feeling fine and then BAM, the effects set in:

'Heightened loss of inhibitions'; a 'gradual dulling effect on the central nervous system'; 'Poor judgement and recklessness'; 'Normal situations turned into potentially dangerous ones'….

The rule I break time and again - one beer, one water. The phrase is "live and learn." I have no problem living; it's the learning part that's tough. And oh yea - self control. That's a big one.

Beer Snob? Guilty as Charged.

2006-06-27T23:12:00.000-04:00

Europeans know beer. Most Americans don't. There can be no other explanation for the absolute crap known as "domestic beer" at your local bar or grocery store. Coors, Michelobe, Miller and Budweiser... oh, Budweiser, the self-proclaimed King of Beers! Are you kidding me? If I was a serf tilling the fields for King Budweiser in the early 12th century, I would have waited for an opportune time to run him through with my broadsword. My name? Sorley McGuinness.

We drink crappy beer and the world a laughs. Anheuser-Busch spent $40 million to become one of seven sponsors of the FIFA World Cup in Germany, thus attaining "pouring rights" at the 12 stadiums across Deutschland. The Germans, who know a thing or two about beer, were none too pleased and launched an all-out protest in the form of Budout.org - which is just brilliant. Be careful clicking on that link, though, as there's some not-safe-for-work photos of people dissing our American export.

Why did Anheuser-Busch think it could force Germans - of all people - into drinking their inferior product and not have massive protests? To Germans, beer is a sacred thing. According to Wikipedia, there are more than 1,300 breweries in Germany, the highest number of breweries in the world. What wine is to France, beer is to Germany. And much like the Champagne section of France, there have been strict rules governing what can be called beer in Germany. Yeast, water, barley and hops. That's it. That's beer. Budweiser is made with rice.

Rice.

I hate so-called domestic beer. And a wag of the finger to Anheuser-Busch for thinking it could buy its way into the German market. For starters, you'd first have to remove their tastebuds. But then you'd have to make them forget the centuries-old tradition of brew-making in their homeland. Good luck with that.

St. Augustine: Part II

2006-06-25T23:58:00.000-04:00

The locals of St. Augustine are, without a doubt, some of the most interesting people I've ever met. Fearful of the unknown in equal measure to how purely confident they are in their diminished world view, most of the born-and-raised St. Augustinians I met were caricatures of small town Southern mentality mixed with beachside who-gives-a-crap apathy. Glossing it over was the fact St. Augustine's main draw is as a historical tourist trap - with its "Oldest School House in the U.S.A." and "Fountain of Youth" and other such field trip meccas.

One of my most eye-opening experiences while attending Flagler was a Southern Literature course taught by a third-generation St. Augustinian. But this professor was no yokel - she'd left and come back with an understanding that, while strangely captivating (as I, too, found it), St. Augustine has a dark history. On maybe the third days of class, she let us know that she had learned her relatives had been members of the Klu Klux Klan - an active N. Florida cell in the 1950s and 1960s. It was obvious to us that it pained her to admit it, but she felt it was necessary for us to know why this course was so important for her. She then spent the rest of class telling us a history of St. Augustine that is not very well known, one that the tourist trolley operators weren't likely to include in their sightseeing spiel.

Martin Luther King Jr. had once proclaimed St. Augustine the most racist town in America. The year was 1964, and King brought his civil right movement to a town with known ties between the KKK and law enforcement. He and members of his inner-circle stayed at a hotel downtown (a hotel that still exists under the same ownership). Many brought their familes, and as the children put on their swimsuits, someone connected with the hotel poured bleach into the pool. Children's eyes were burned and they were taken to the local hospital where, initially, they were not allowed entrance.

A full year before the well-known protests in Selma, Alabama, King's group encountered wicked retaliation by bigoted St. Augustine townsfolk. There were fights at the segregated beach, the Woolworth's diner counter and in the main square, directly in front of the Old Slave Market. King was ultimately arrested. An older student in my class recounted entering his best friend's father's closet as a child - the deputy sheriff at the time - and finding a white cloak and hood. That was early 1970s.

Forty years isn't a long time, and despite the presence of a small liberal arts college, and St. Augustine's tranformation into a kind of tourist shopping mall, the same sort of small-mindedness is rampant in St. Augustine. You'd laugh if you weren't crying.

I was in a production of "The Foreigner" my freshman year and I played Rev. David Marshall Lee, the bad guy with bad ideas. At one point, I had to don a KKK outfit complete with hood (this is a comedy, mind you), and as you might have guessed, my character is made to look the fool. We did a performance for a middle school class, and afterward we entered the lobby to meet the students. One child stood out - a girl maybe 8 inches taller than everyone else, with poorly formed teeth and ruddy complexion. "That's a right funny tale you just told," she said in to me and other cast members. "But it ain't right. I think I might just be tellin' my daddy how you made the Klan look." And then she stared us down. And I swear to God, we at first couldn't believe what we were hearing (and guffawed a little bit), but that little girl's steely eyes scared the bejesus out of me. I didn't go anywhere near the stage door wearing that costume the rest of the run.

There are plenty of other stories to tell - like the crazy guy across the street who tried to convince us that our neighbor was a child molester, when it was he himself who was on the City's sexual offender list - but I'll leave you with this; I'm glad I spent four years in St. Augustine. It helped me to crystalize who I am, what I believe and how I want to live my life. A university town that has succumbed to the enormity of the student body does nothing to prepare someone for the stupidity out there in the real world. Living amongst people so clearly fearful of the world outside their small hamlet steeled my resolve - it was only a matter of time before I got the hell out of North Florida.

Water Taxi Beach: Gloooorious

2006-06-21T00:42:00.000-04:00

Finally got out to Water Taxi Beach in Long Island City this past weekend. I'd heard about it after it closed last October and was intrigued by the idea - a parking lot filled with imported New Jersey sand located near the New York Water Taxi docking station at the Hunters Point Ferry Terminal on the East River. It's easily accessed via subway (7 Train to Jackson/Vernon), it's free, there are picnic tables, a volleyball net and they serve beer. Rock.

Actually, I was rather surprised by the set-up. Of course, there is a chainlink fence surrounding the beach near the East River. Atop the fence are misters that utilize "evaporate cooling technology." These misters catch the breeze coming off the river and it makes for a refreshing, slightly cooler experience. A "DJ" was playing old Michael Jackson (maybe a little too loud) and the beer was moderately priced ($5-$6). They advertise having $2 Pabst, but they were out. Ah well, the Magic Hat was refreshing. They also serve Gaffel Kölsch, a German Beer from Cologne that looks like a pilsner but is slightly less bitter.

Greatly recommend it. And if the grilled burgers and dogs they serve don't interest you, there is a BBQ joint around the corner that was pretty good - Smokey's 11101. And since the Beach only offers Port-o-lets (the one big drawback - though they seem brand new and were clean), the restaurant was key.

Like, This is Really Important...

2006-06-17T12:52:00.000-04:00

Students at the University of California, San Diego (UCSD) have placed these posters all over campus in an effort to stamp out "valley speak," or, like, you know, crutch words that have somehow become acceptable forms of communication.

One of my favorite new sketches on SNL is the Two A-Holes with two of this past season's featured players (Jason Sudeikis & Kristen Wiig). Wiig's affected "what-ever" approach to the character is awesome. "What did he look like, babe?" "Babe, what did he look like?" "He looked like a rabbit." I hope to see more of them next season.

The Bad Guys Won: The 1986 Mets

2006-06-16T18:10:00.000-04:00

I’m currently reading “The Bad Guys Won! – A Season of Brawling, Boozing, Bimbo-chasing, and Championship Baseball with Straw, Doc, Mookie, Nails, The Kid, and the Rest of the 1986 Mets, the Rowdiest Team Ever to Put on a New York Uniform--and Maybe the Best.” Huge title, and a really solid baseball book. That 1986 team was a mess of characters.

It’s not hard to draw parallels between that team and the current Mets squad. Like the 1985-1986 Mets team, the current iteration has homegrown talent (Wright & Reyes) as well as big-buck FA power and style (Delgado, Beltran, Pedro, et. al.). The 1986 version had two guys – Carter and Hernandez – who were All Stars before they got to New Yawk, and were cast-off as punishment for not doing enough to please their former GMs. It seems ridiculous now, but that’s how they came to be Mets. And Doc Gooden and Darryl Strawberry were emerging talents who just took off at the perfect time. A bunch of role players (Dykstra, Mookie, Ojeda, Backman) contributed, but those four were the stars.

I am struck by the talented pitching that 1986 Mets team. They had three guys (Gooden, Darling, Ojeda) post sub 3.00 ERA seasons, and Sid Fernandez (3.52) and Rick Aguilera (3.88) weren’t that far behind. Pitching, more so than hitting, was the strength of that team. Straight-up platoons at 3rd (HoJo & Ray Knight), 2nd base (Teufel & Backman) and CF (Dykstra & Mookie) – plus a good-field, no-hit SS (Santana) – made for a balanced, if not dominant, lineup. Freakin’ George Foster started the season with the team. I’d forgotten that completely.

I’m trying to find some kernel of hope for the Pirates in this story, and I think I’ve found it: though the times have completely changed, the structure of the Pirates right now going into 2007 isn’t so different from where the Mets were in 1985. Sean Casey could be our Keith Hernandez. Jason Bay is our Strawberry. Two of Duke/Snell/Gorzy could be our Gooden/Darling 1-2 combo. Freddy Sanchez reminds one of Wally Backman’s hustle (and .320 avg that season).

The difference-maker was Gary Carter. The Pirates need to bring in one more guy to play RF and hit the tar out of the ball. One more consistent offensive threat makes this team so much better. The 1-run losses turn into tie games and more wins.

The other piece of this is our starting pitching, which has been good of late but has yet to live up to the hype. If that gels in 2007, and we pick up a 30+ HR high OBP RF, I think the Pirates have the components to win.

In any case, read the book. It’s hilarious. Those guys were huge drunks, womanizers and louts. They hated each other. And they won the World Series despite near-impossible odds. It is one of my earliest baseball memories.

The Many Mes of the Universe

2006-06-16T08:12:00.000-04:00

"If I were a teacher of quantum physics, my first lesson would be to teach my students that there are no such things a left turns, because somewhere, in an alternate reality, a multiple of you is making a right turn. And they negate each other. But if I were a philosopher trying to prove that quantum physics is purely theorectical, I'd take off my shoes and count my toes over and over again... 'cause, as the old Swahili adage goes, 'ain't nothing more real than the number of toes in yo' shoes.' That was the news. Goodnight."

Random Thoughts: June 15, 2006

2006-06-15T01:31:00.000-04:00

Another edition of "I'm-so-fricken-lazy-I-just-want-to-write-bullet-points":

Pittsburgh Steelers fans the world over breathed a huge sigh of relief today, realizing Ben Roethlisberger is probably going to be okay and ready to play by the start of the season. And he's lucky - not only could he have died, he could have ended up the worst thing to happen to Pittsburgh since George Hendrick.
I love karaoke. There. I said it. It's the creative outlet I've lacked the past four years.
I sort of think someone is the bees knees. Hopefully she knows who she is.
Do I need to FedEx a Father's Day card? Can I send it tomorrow and have it arrive in time? I'm a crappy child.
Geebus, I'm tired. To bed with me.

NASCAR & Scientology: Xenu Save Us!

2006-06-10T10:18:00.000-04:00

I recently had an interesting conversation with a NASCAR fan I know - a smart, well-educated gentleman who doesn't fit my perception of a typical racing fan - concerning the attraction of the sport. I hesitate to call it a sport, frankly. Racing is more machine than man, with the failure of mechanics largely responsible for defeats.

Still, there is no denying its draw. NASCAR reports its fanbase at something north of 250 million worldwide. And I don't doubt that figure. By linking the "sport" to the advertisers who sponsor the teams, NASCAR has essentially outsourced its marketing efforts to the coporations who know how to do it best.

The growth of the sport in the last twenty years is a testament to this system of advertising. Buy a Budweiser product in North Carolina and you are likely to Dale Earnhardt's picture on the side of the can. A back-flipping Carl Edwards is probably featured in Office Depot commercials somewhere...

But don't think other industries haven't taken notice of the sport's popularity. The Church of Scientology has decided to sponsor Kent Gray's Number 27 car. Actually, make that Bridge Publications, which publishes Dianetics by Scientology founder L. Ron Hubbard. The car's theme will be "ignite your potential," with the famous Dianetics Volcano painted on the hood of the car.

Regular readers of Wag will recall, I am no fan of Scientology. I can think of nothing that proves the Scientology-is-a-cult point better than this sponsorship aimed at a fanbase that is, shall we say, susceptible to suggestion. Brand loyalty is strong in the NASCAR world, so I wouldn't be surprised to see sales for Dianetics jump in the next month or so. In fact, I am going to try and track that.

As the article suggests, this is not the first time religion has moved in on NASCAR. There have been instances of Christian-messages ('The Passion of the Christ,' 'Racing with Jesus'), but those had the effect of preaching to the choir. You don't see the Hindu Car or the Muslim Race Team. Scientology and Budweiser really aren't that different from each other - they both taste like crap and fill your head with crazy thoughts.

Pat Robertson is an Alien

2006-06-07T23:56:00.000-04:00

The Pat Robertson Age-Defying Shake is no mere snake oil. I started drinking it several moons ago, and now I can drag a cart full of sinners 10 feet without losing my footing. If that's not God's work, then I wonder if the problem isn't with YOU! Look at this man. He's Pat Robertson - a very important guy. And look at him go! Buy his energy drink! If nothing else, you'll be contributing to his global mystery.

THIS MESSAGE BROUGHT TO YOU BY CHRISTIANS WHO NEVER WENT TO COLLEGE.

On-Line Gamblers and Child Pornographers: Peas in a Pod?

2006-06-06T22:31:00.000-04:00

WAG OF THE FINGER has no real theme or focus, and as such, it will never get much attention. I'm okay with that. It started off as a shaming blog for pointing out the stupid activities of the blind and misguided, but now it's kind of a catch-all diary. Ah well. So much for ambition.

However, in the first three months of posting, a few topics have emerged as repeat offenders: illegal immigrants, crazy New Yorkers, party-line conservatives, special interest groups standing in the way of campaign finance reform, the Catholic Church and anyone who doesn't think poker is the greatest modern invention. If you are a member of any of these groups, be warned. You are on notice.

Beginning tomorrow, gambling on-line in the state of Washington will be considered a Class C felony. You can play the free games, but if you pull out the old credit card, you could go to prison for five years and fined $10,000. As the article suggests, this would place the on-line gambler in the same league as child pornographers and repeat drunk driving offenders. For playing poker. Because, you know, on-line gambling doesn't just hurt the user, it hurts the Native Americans making millions off the suffering of their ancestors.

"Washington State doesn’t have an antigambling stance. Within its borders are 24 tribal casinos and 94 “house bank” cardrooms, which can legally spread poker and blackjack."

So, this state that allows legal gambling in casinos run by Native Americans - in 24 such casinos throughout the state - is now making it a felony to do it from the comfort of your own home. Sure, they say the focus is on illegal webhosting in-state, wanting to bust the casinos instead of the gamblers, but this whole thing sets a nasty precedent.

I don't gamble on-line. I've got more than enough real-life action through private games to keep me busy. But I hardly consider someone who wants to play some low-stakes poker on the Internet in the same league with those possessing kiddie porn.

I think it more than a bit suspect that a state with so many Indian casinos (really, 24?!?) would pass such a law. I'd be interested in seeing the campaign donations to the legislature that passed this bill. Any major contributions from Chief Big Stakes or Sitting Pat?

June 6, 2006: Day of the Devil (Mark of the Beast)

2006-06-05T22:12:00.000-04:00

Tomorrow is June 6, 2006 (06/06/06), a day we've all been waiting for. The Bible makes a big deal about the number 6-6-6, and ever since I can remember, a hand in poker constituting three 6's has been called the Mark of the Beast. God bless The Omen remake, which I hope does unGodly business this week.

In honor of hell being unleashed on Earth, I dedicate my blog tonight to all things quotably Satanic:

"Here is wisdom. Let him that hath understanding count the number of the beast; for it is the number of a man; and his number is 666."

- Book of Revelation, Chapter 13, Verse 18

"I watched with glee while your kings and queens
Fought for ten decades for the Gods they made
I shouted out, who killed the Kennedys?
When after all it was you and me
Let me please introduce myself
I'm a man of wealth and taste

And I laid traps for troubadours

Who get killed before they reached Bombay

Pleased to meet you, hope you guessed my name,
But whats puzzling you is the nature of my game..."

- "Sympathy for the Devil" Rolling Stones (1968)

Robert Thorn: If there were anything wrong, you'd tell me, wouldn't you?

Kathy Thorn: Wrong? What could be wrong with our child, Robert? We're the beautiful people, aren't we?

- The Omen (1976)

-"So that after six hundred years of destruction on the island of Pelan, they had grafted away the black, grafted away the brown, grafted away the yellow, so that all they had left was a pale-skinned, blue-eyed, blonde-haired thing that you call a man. But actually the Bible calls him the devil. That's the devil that the Bible is talking about: old Lucifer, Satan, or the serpent. Because the lighter they got, the weaker they got. As they began to get lighter and lighter they grow weaker and weaker. Their blood became weaker, their bones became weaker, their minds became weaker, their morals became weaker. They became a wicked race; by nature wicked."

- "Black Man's History" by Malcolm X (1962)

Doug Llewellen (Kevin Nealon): And let's get a reaction from the Devil! Mephistopheles, any comment? Mephistopheles?

Mephistopheles (Jon Lovitz): Leave me alone! [ apologetic ] I'm sorry. It's not you, Doug. It's just that I'm out $2,700 that I'll probably never see again, plus I have to pay damages. What am I gonna do with three Bonnet hairdryers? Mark my word, the wench will be mine!

Doug Llewellen: Next time, you'll get it in writing?

Mephistopheles: I had it in writing. [ stares hypnotically at the camera ] You, watching this at home, worship me! I command you! Become my willing thralls and live eternally!

Doug Llewellen: That's all for this edition of "The People's Court".

Mephistopheles: Know the sweet, sublime feeling of complete obediance to your Evil Master! Come serve me, the Prince of Darkness, I command it! Hear me!

Bailiff: Come on, let's go! Come on!

Mephistopheles: Wait, wait just a second.. Obey me! Obey me! [ laughs evilly ]

Doug Llewellen: Remember, if someone cheats you in a business dealing, and you feel you're being intimidated, don't take the law into your own hands. You take them to court.

- Saturday Night Live (1986)

“If the devil does not exist, and man has therefore created him, he has created him in his own image and likeness..."

- Fyodor Dostoyevsky

Rosemary: What have you done to it? What have you done to its eyes?
Roman: He has his father's eyes.
Rosemary: What are you talking about?! Guy's eyes are normal! What have you done to him? You maniacs!
Roman: Satan is his father, not Guy. He came up from hell and begat a son of mortal woman. [Coven members cheer 'Hail, Satan!'] Satan is his father and his name is Adrian. He shall overthrow the mighty and lay waste their temples. He shall redeem the despised and wreak vengeance in the name of the burned and the tortured. Hail, Adrian! Hail, Satan! Hail, Satan!
Minnie: He chose you out of all the world - out of all the women in the whole world, he chose you. He arranged things, because he wanted you to be the mother of his only living son.
Roman: His power is stronger than stronger! His might shall last longer than longer.
Japanese man: Hail, Satan!
Rosemary: No! It can't be! No!
Minnie: Go look at his hands.
Laura-Louise: And his feet.
Rosemary: Oh, God! [She drops her knife]
Roman: God is dead! Satan lives!

- Rosemary's Baby (1968)

Random Thoughts: May 31, 2006

2006-05-31T20:31:00.000-04:00

Another edition of Random Thoughts, because I can't seem to muster the strength to do some sort of issue-oriented diatribe and my thoughts remain scattershot:

What about these Pittsburgh Pirates? For those of you who don't follow the team (in other words, most of you), the lowly Buccos have been battling back of late. Major offense from Jason Bay (11 HRs in 13 games) and Jose Castillo (5 HRs in 5 games), coupled with decent starting pitching and the emergence of 3B Freddy Sanchez as a hit-machine (his .356 AVG leading the majors) - we got something going in P-Burgh. Five wins in the last six games! We might have a 19-34 win-loss record, but I feel like something good is happening there.
This past weekend was a needed break from the grind. Something snapped for me emotionally, which was actually a positive, and I feel somehow lighter. I'd been carrying a lot of grief around of late.
This just in from "I'm Doug, and I'm Outta Heeeere" - The National Review has posted a list of the "50 Greatest Conservative Rock Songs," which can be viewed here. It's a funny little list, with the writer basically choosing songs with lyrics that 'support' some tenant of the conservative right. It's hard for me, though, to think of any Stones song as truly conservative, and I think this writer missed a lot of the sarcasm in tunes like The Clash's “Rock the Casbah” and The Beatles' “Revolution.” The point is, rock has criticized conservative principles overtly since its inception, but this writer has to look for a few words buried in the 2nd verse to make his point. Back into the bunker, John J. Miller...
Poor NYC Councilmember Peter Vallone Jr. He's our rep out here in Astoria, and he's picked the wrong battle, taking on graffiti artists. His name is now being used in tags all over town as evidenced in the photo above, and let's just say they aren't necessarily kind. I do believe in the assertion of the Giuliani administration that killing graffiti on the subways and in depressed neighborhoods helped to decrease crime - the "broken windows" theory. But supporting any sort of ban on the purchase of spray paint by 18-21 year olds is just outrageous, and very likely unconstitutional.
Wondering what ever happened to Booberry Cereal. It was a part of the Count Chocula and Frankenberry family of cereals. It's not on the shelves anymore? That blows. Let's start a petition and get the Pope involved.

Pirates win in 18 innings

2006-05-28T09:39:00.000-04:00

I went to the Pirates game last night, but we left after the 10th inning. Got in the car, listened to innings 11 through 13 on the way back to Cranberry. Got in the house, flipped on the TV and watched 14 through 18... shocked. Geez louise, they played two games last night! And won!

It was a great night. Jason Bay kept up his hot hitting with a 3-run jack. Burnitz delivered a key pinch-hit solo bomb. Castillo kept things alive in the 17th with a jack. It was quite exciting, and I have a Perez-Gonzalez dual-bobblehead to remember the evening by.

In other news, my cold has moved down into my chest. Nothing like being on vacation and feeling crappy. The weather is fricken beautiful here in Pittsburgh. It's good to spend time with my family. We're having a very nice time. The trip into PNC to meet the new analyst went well, though he was spittin' some jargon. I need to study the ramifications of 'stagflation,' 'cause he seems to think we're in for it. That's when the market holds steady but inflation continues to spike ala the mid-1970s.

It's nice not to be thinking about work for a little bit. Oh crap, I just thought about it. Must... go... relax...

I'm in Pittsburgh for the Weekend

2006-05-27T09:18:00.000-04:00

Arrived yesterday. Have a touch of a cold, I think from living too damn hard. Going to a Pirates game tonight - my 2nd Maholm game in the last month. Enjoying my time wuth the family. heading back to NYC on Tuesday morning.

Happy Memorial Day weekend.

McCain Treated Like Crap - Uncool

2006-05-20T14:40:00.000-04:00

John McCain is against gay marriage, abortion and supported the decision to go to war with Iraq. He's also attempted to cultivate Bush's Christian conservative contingent (dumb move IMHO) and has softened his stance on a number of issues where he was once painted as a progressive. Despite all this, I like him.

These are hot-button topics for me, don't get me wrong, but I'm looking beyond them. He and I share a common opinion on the corrupt structure of Washington. He believes special interest money is ruining the legislative process. Others share this belief, but none have his political clout. I forgive him his transgressions on these issues because, though I understand some think of them as their reason for voting, they are merely (to me) surface issues that keep blue collar Southerns voting Republican.

I would support a McCain presidency, because I think at his core he's a reformer bent on cleaning-up DC politics. Whether or not he'll be successful is another discussion, but at least he'd try, from the most important seat in American politics.

So, I'm confused by the reaction from students at New School for protesting his delivery of the graduating class commencement speech. I just think it's misguided, frankly. The man is wearing the clothes of necessity to garner support. Whereas Bush did this for his own devises, I believe McCain has a far broader vision that includes 4 years spent on campaign finance reform.

I don't like to pull this card (because I think it sounds arrogant, because I was sworn to secrecy on some things, because whenever someone goes there it tends to undercut rather than illuminate the argument)... BUT... having seen this process first-hand on the city and state level in Florida, I can only imagine how much more intense it is on the federal level.

Favors are handed out like IOU's on post-it notes. Watchdog groups do not garner enough media attention and have been cast as alarmists. Career politicans are so concerned with positioning themselves for the next election cycle that their staffers are generally covering legislative hearings while they meet with well-paid "governmental relations firms" (read: lobbyists) strategizing as to how to best win the vote in an election that may be years away. Heck, it could be that still woefully wet-behind-the-ears recent college graduate writing those handy five-point platforms, using a kind of madlibs-style speech generator to win-over this retirement home or that fire station.

I want to go a little further with this - our elected officials should be serving the best interests of their contituents. It seems so simple, so painfully obvious. But like Student Council Government candidates who promise a shorter school day, our local, state a federal politicans are point blank lying to voters.

This is nothing new. American history is riddled with corruption. But so many of our current elected officials are not only saying whatever it takes to get elected, but accepting donations from those who advocate for the exact opposite of the candidates' platform. And no one is noticing (or reporting on the fact) that their promises go unfulfilled. Or worse.

The 2002 McCain-Feingold bill was a great start. Banning soft money funneled into the parties by the corporate sector was huge - HUGE! - and was basically overlooked at the time as one of the most important pieces of legislation to be passed in a long ass time. The 2000 and 2002 elections alone generated $500 million in soft money to the RNC and DNC. And they needed it, as spending on the 2004 presidential and congressional elections topped $4 billion, up from $1.8 billion in 1992.

Banning soft money alone won't cut it, unless we want to be ruled by only those with personal fortunes large enough to outspend their opponents. There need to be additional restrictions on amounts and sources, and ultimately a funding cap of some sort.

Pick your cause - the environment, foreign affairs, religion in gov't, health care, alternative fuels, gay rights, abortion - until radical changes are made in the structure of political campaign finance, these issues will continue to bang around, brought on by those special interest groups who finance the elections. And as such, we'll never truly adopt policy and move on.

Dealing with McCain's other views is a risk I'd be willing to take. Unless he's one of those lying politicans. In which case, disregard.

'The Da Vinci Code' Film Bombs With Critics

2006-05-18T07:13:00.000-04:00

Normally, I love a solid, salt-of-the-earth protest; people getting outraged, taking it to the streets, shouting at supporters, bickering about moral concerns. There's not really enough of that going in the world these days outside the Middle East. Where have you gone Cindy Sheehan? Our nation turns its lonely eyes to you...

The Catholic League sent out a press release yesterday compiling all the negative reviews the film has thus far received, rubbing salt in Opie's wounds. But those excerpts only scratch the surface.

Rottentomatoes.com, the movie has rated a lowly 19% approval rating from 26 mainstream press reviews, which as you might have guessed, puts it in 'rotten tomato' territory.

But thanks to all these protests, everybody knows this Ron Howard-dud is opening this weekend. I doubt highly that these reviews will kill the box office altogether, but they will do more to torpedo its prospects than the millions of people worldwide who marched against it in the first place. If anything, this sort of moral outrage generally drives up the box office.

The book has been on the New York Times best seller list for eons, but because a movie adaptation is being released, suddenly people are outraged enough to rally? I just don't get it.

Good work, Pope. You lucked out on this one. But just wait until the Atheist Nanny Diaries hits cinemas next year. "She's a plucky atheist cleaning up after slovenly monks. What she hears is both hilarious and disturbing..." Sounds like a winner.

A Good Idea? Or a Really Bad Idea?

2006-05-15T00:03:00.000-04:00

Entrepreneurship is a fickle business. I've never really set out to fill a gap in commerce. I've always thought, "sure, it's a good idea, but there's got to be someone out there who had that idea, once upon a time, and decided it couldn't be done, or wasn't profitable, or SOMETHING?!?! I can't possibly have thought of that, uniquely, myself..." Perhaps its the influence of John Lennon too early in life:

There's nothing you can do that can't be done.
Nothing you can sing that can't be sung.
Nothing you can say but you can learn how to play the game.
It's easy.

Nothing you can make that can't be made.
No one you can save that can't be saved.
Nothing you can do but you can learn how to be you in time.
It's easy.

But then again, if all one truly needed was love, explain to me why people put themselves on the line for a good idea? Is it only a good idea if it makes money, or at least returns to the person the investment of his/her time and energy?

Am I someone who will forever work for the good idea of someone else, because it's time tested and approved?

Or am I someone who is willing to take a risk on something I think is a good idea, whatever it might be, and follow it through?

I gave up trying to be a musician/singer/songwriter years ago, and it is lodged in the back of my psyche that I failed for having not ever tried, for not having followed through. Fear of failure? Fear of the unknown? I don't know for sure, but fear of some sort was definitely a part of it.

So maybe fire-retardant matchsticks isn't the best idea in the world, but it's MY idea, ya know?!

I need to think on this... and immediately withdraw all the money from my savings account... just in case.

Atlas Shrugged: Starring Brad Pitt and Angelia Jolie?

2006-05-13T11:59:00.000-04:00

According to a couple sources, the Hollywood dream team of Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie are in negotiations to play John Galt and Dagny Taggart, respectively. Because, you know, those who represent the best intentions of capitalism on celluloid must surely be attractive and fit. George Clooney would make a dashing Francisco d'Anconia.

Ayn Rand oversimplified everything to make a point. Objectivism can not seriously be practiced, in its truest form, in the real world.

But its a brilliant manifesto to throw in the face of the left-leaning socialists of the early half 20th century, people who never saw for themselves how corrupt a socialist system inevitably becomes... because man is too greedy, and slovenly, and it brings out the worst in a man and leaves the most brilliant to carry the load.

The Fountainhead is the best of her fiction, by far. I truly loved Atlas Shrugged when I first read it, but I wonder how they could possibly render it for the screen. The Fountainhead, yes, it makes for better visuals...

Who is John Galt? According to IMDB, it's not Brad Pitt... yet.

A shout out...

2006-05-13T00:36:00.000-04:00

This is just a shout-out to someone who happens to be very busy right now.

-=text deleted for the sake of discretion and other undefinable truths, et al, etc.=-

"Aww, you gots to be kiddin' dog..." "Nah, man, he's cool. Shes's dope..."

DVD Review: Serenity

2006-05-11T22:09:00.000-04:00

Whew! Hell of a movie, that 'Serenity' is. I give Joss Whedon some major props for making a solid sci-fi film that doesn't try to be either Star Wars or Star Trek in drag.

The 'Firefly' series unfortuantely debuted in 2003 on FOX. I say unfortunately, because there was no chance for it to survive there. UPN already had Enterprise in the works, its weaker twin starring an emasculated Scott Bakula, and that series was crap to begin with. I can't remember, but I think Voyager was struggling on UPN at the time. Plus, Firefly had to be an expensive show to shoot, what with all the CGI special effects, but it was also doomed to fail from the get-go because sci-fi just doesn't get much love from the mainstream public. Most people kind of suck.

'Serenity' was the motion picture that, I guess, sought to tie up all the loose ends resulting from one solitary season of a series with a really captivating premise. The plot (without giving 'nothin' away): a science fair experiment named River is kidnapped by her brother from the facility that was engineering her. He brings her on-board the Serenity, a ship captained by an officer from the Independent colonies, who only 7 years before lost out to the Core Federation of Planets. Or some such thing.

River heard some shiz while she was being operated on, 'cause she's psychic you see, and she read somebody's brain! This massive secret she knows - well, okay, it isn't so massive but kind of freaky anyways - is rattling around inside her science experimented brain. The captain of the ship she's flying on has is out for the Federation. A+B = fun! And you needn't have followed the series to enjoy to the film.

Good science fiction is, unfortunately, a dying breed. After the success of Star Wars and Star Trek, nothing seems to hold the attention span of the masses anymore. 'Serenity' should have been a bigger hit than it was, but its good to know people are discovering this gem after the fact, on DVD. I'ts a no-brainer. Pretty soon, we'll all be monkeys of the administration, carrying secrets of our own. We are warlocks of a different time. Hail the Reeperbahn. Down with thought!

Lalalalalalalalalalalala!

How to Spend $4.35 Million in 7 Days

2006-05-11T00:09:00.000-04:00

On the first day, buy a minature luxury yacht. I don't know much about the yacht-buying game, but I understand it to be a fair trade and that yachts only appreciate in value over time. It's a sound investment is what I'm trying to say here. And if anyone tells you differently, that person is a damn liar.

I advocate for the purchase of a minature yacht on that first day for several reasons. Most notably, it will make your new friends, the original Oompa Loompa cast of 'Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory,' more comfortable. They will fear you intially, throwing around your money and insisting they join you for the next week on a wild spending spree, and that miniature yacht could be just the thing to settle everyone down. Plus, yachts, while impressive, are rather expensive. And you only have $4.35 million to spend, so you have to pace yourself. Make sure to christen your boat with 10 bottles of Krug's Clos du Mesnil, either smashed one right after another against the hull or simultaneously with your new small friends. That will cost you $3,500 or so right there.

On the second day, you should really enjoy that yacht. It's okay to take it easy on this, your second day as a millionaire, because you've earned it. Being suddenly wealthy affords you the opportunity to be as lazy as you want, but remember - you only have 6 more days to spend that money. Time is money, so to speak. If you feel particularly ambitious, you could fashion an anchor out of a Frederic Remington Broncho Buster bronze sculpture. These have sold at auction houses for as much as $228,000, but those versions are only 22 inches high. You'll need a much larger Remington to use as an anchor, so double that figure. Once it is chained to your yacht, go ahead and toss it in the water. Again, these figurines only appreciate over time, and there's nothing like saltwater to keep bronze looking great.

Moving on to the third day, with some major purchases under your belt, it's time to consider whether to have your profile carved with a laser into a sentimental rock outcropping, say a cliff near your childhood home, or to go for the gusto and make a charitable contribution to a small non-profit organization on the one condition that they change the legal name of the charity to 'Poop Inc.' I am unsure of the costs associated with either of these ventures, but they seem fitting and purposeful.

By my calculations, when you awake on the fourth morning, you should have something north of $1.5 million leftover. If my math is correct, that's roughly $600,000... no, wait, sorry... $700,000 to spend each day for the next three days. Your new midget friends are enjoying the time of their lives - well, excepting the movie they shot with Gene Wilder in the mid-1970s. It will be far too easy to coast on that fourth day, but you have a job to do. I can not stress enough how important it is to remain on goal.

In reality, spending $700,000 a day isn't all that difficult. Surely you can figure out the rest of this on your own, no? The funeral home? The vat of cranberry sauce? The mannequins made of opal? The caviar-crusted moonrock? Yanni?

I won't insult your intelligence any further, then. When a madman tells you he's going to poison the water supply of a small South American village if you don't spend $4.35 million in 7 days, you just tend to figure it out as you go along.

Know when to walk away, know when to run...

2006-05-09T08:10:00.000-04:00

What in God's name has Kenny Rogers done to himself?!? I'll never understand why someone thinks warping his/her face to remove wrinkles is ever the way to go. I'm sort of scared of the new Kenny Rogers. Somebody hold me.

Random Complaints: 5/8/06

2006-05-08T07:13:00.000-04:00

I'm having trouble staying current with this site. Look below - it's been nearly a week since my last post. I'd hoped to post daily, or at least every other day, but this apathy of mine is spreading. Starting today, I'm redoubling - no, tripling - my efforts. That way, I'll post every third day? I think my math is fuzzy on that one.
George Lucas is a money grubbing bastard. After claiming he wouldn't ever release the original, unaltered trilogy on DVD - and forcing many people to either buy his flawed Guido-shoots-first version or a 1995 Laserdisc rip - Lucasfilms is now releasing a bundled version on September 12. And then it goes back inside the Disney vault forever! Like Disney, Lucas is in love with his power. Someday, his disembodied head will be floating in a hermetically sealed glass chamber awaiting the day it can be surgically fused to the body of a wookie.
Speaking of Star Wars-inspired hilarity, e-mail Daniel Erickson and tell him you demand he post his Che Guevara images - Che-bacca and C-Che-pio - to his site. Better yet, tell him you'll buy a shirt. They are masterpieces.
Porter Goss, we hardly knew you. And what we did know scared the ever-loving crap out of us. Enter General Michael V. Hayden, the likely successor. Let's see - an irrational fear of the unknown, defended the NSA wiretaps like it was his job, in bed with Rumsfeld... sounds like a winner. God help us.
Barry Bonds refused to sign an autograph on the baseball that he launched into the upper deck at the Phillies new stadium. It was the 713th of his career, putting him one behind Babe Ruth's mark. An Airforce-enlisted man named Carlos Oliveras caught the ball (or retrieved it from the ground) and posed with Bonds for a picture. Though Bonds refused to sign the ball, Oliveras was asked to sign a release for his new reality show. If Earl Hickey is correct and karma does exist, Bonds will not break Hank Aaron's record. He disgusts me.
Apple Corp lost out to Apple Computer in its bid to keep its trademark on a fruit. And no, I'm not talking about Steve Jobs. Despite my love of the Beatles, this was the right decision. There's no trademark breach going on here. Just greed.
Tom Hanks on SNL this weekend? Pretty horrid. At least bring back Mr. No-Depth Perception!

Stephen Colbert: A Brave Patriot

2006-05-02T23:18:00.000-04:00

In case you haven't had a chance to check out Stephen Colbert's White House Press Corps Dinner, here's a link to the transcript and to a video of the performance itself (in 3 parts). I heart Stephen Colbert.

Highlights:

“I believe the government that governs best is the government that governs least. And by these standards, we have set up a fabulous government in Iraq.I believe in pulling yourself up by your own bootstraps. I believe it is possible -- I saw this guy do it once in Cirque du Soleil. It was magical. And though I am a committed Christian, I believe that everyone has the right to their own religion, be it Hindu, Jewish or Muslim. I believe (in) our infinite paths to accepting Jesus Christ as your personal savior.”

On the Press: “But the rest of you, what are you thinking, reporting on N.S.A. wiretapping or secret prisons in Eastern Europe? Those things are secret for a very important reason, they're superdepressing. And if that's your goal, well, misery accomplished. Over the last five years you people were so good over tax cuts, W.M.D. intelligence, the affect of global warming. We Americans didn't want to know, and you had the courtesy not to try to find out. Those were good times, as far as we knew. But, listen, let's review the rules. Here's how it works. The President makes decisions, he's the decider. The Press Secretary announces those decisions, and you people of the press type those decisions down. Make, announce, type. Put them through a spell check and go home. Get to know your family again. Make love to your wife. Write that novel you got kicking around in your head. You know, the one about the intrepid Washington reporter with the courage to stand up to the administration. You know, fiction.”

"Everybody asks for personnel changes. So the White House has personnel changes. Then you write they're just rearranging the deck chairs on the Titanic. First of all, that is a terrible metaphor. This administration is not sinking. This administration is soaring. If anything, they are rearranging the deck chairs on the Hindenburg."

"… Mayor Nagin is here from New Orleans, the chocolate city. Yeah, give it up. Mayor Nagin, I would like to welcome you to Washington, D.C., The chocolate city with a marshmallow center. And a graham cracker crust of corruption. It's a mallomar is what I'm describing, a seasonal cookie."

"Joe Wilson is here, the most famous husband since Desi Arnez. And of course he brought along his lovely wife Valerie Plame. Oh, my god! Oh, what have I said. I am sorry, Mr. President, I meant to say he brought along his lovely wife, Joe Wilsons wife. Pat Fitzgerald is not here tonight? Dodged a bullet."

- - - Seriously, who else would have the balls (great big patriotic balls) to do what Colbert did the other night? Stephen Colbert and Jon Stewart in 2008.

- Major props to DOUG for the links

Flight 93 - I'm Still Dazed

2006-05-01T22:42:00.000-04:00

Flight 93 is a difficult film to review. On one hand, it’s well-crafted, has solid performances and somehow maintains a modicum of suspense despite chronicling the events of a day none of us will soon forget. On the other hand, it’s a film about the worst day of our collective lives. How is this entertainment?

It’s not. At least, not in the traditional sense. I equate it to attending the funeral of someone you didn’t know. But the eulogy is so engaging, you walk away feeling like you knew the person. The film gives a nearly minute-by-minute account of the events that fateful morning beginning at 6:30 AM and ending sometime before 10 AM with the crash of Flight 93 into a field in Stonycreek Township, Pennsylvania.

There is no epilogue starring Rudolph Giuliani, or the families of the victims, or a performance by Neil Young. The last film footage is of a mad dash to the cockpit by the bravest airline passengers the world has ever seen. And then black, silence. The audience, which had sat in rapt silence throughout the entire film, walked out of the theater just as quietly.

To be sure, this is not your typical date movie. Of course, that’s exactly how I came to be sitting in a movie theater in Battery Park City literally blocks away from Ground Zero. And it was our first date, so go figure. In our defense, neither of us was in New York for the attacks.

Though I now consider myself a New Yorker by association, if not by birthright, I was not in the City on September 11th. In fact, it was because of the terrorist attacks that I came to be visiting just a few months later. I ran into a friend I hadn’t seen in years who informed me of a job opening. Three months later, I’m looking for an apartment.

As such, I have a very different perspective than those who were caught up in the confusion that morning. And I can completely understand those who say it is too early for a film like this, that the last thing they want to do is relive that awful morning. I respect that position.

For me, it was important to see this film. For starters, I don’t think I understood the circumstances that resulted in the breakdown in communication that morning. Everyone was reporting back to another middle-manager, no one had the authority necessary for the critical action that was needed and, at least initially, no one believed that a hijacking was a possibility. While orders were awaiting authorization on the ground, the civilian passengers staring down their fate stand out like the heroes they were. It may all be conjecture, but the point is, the terrorists did not reach their intended target.

But beyond the education I received, it was an important film because I needed to be reminded of the tragedy that day. I know those who were in the City that morning, just arriving at work, lived through a hell I can not possibly imagine. In my riverfront office building in Jacksonville, Florida, I was scared, and confused, but it pales in comparison. I tried to donate blood later that day. I ate pizza and watched CNN. I wasn’t walking home through dusty streets in a haze of fear and anger.

This is an important film. It could have been maudlin or somehow overacted. Writer/director Paul Greengrass should be commended.

Should you see it? Yes. But only when you’re ready.

National Boycott May 1st?

2006-04-28T07:50:00.000-04:00

Illegal immigrants across the country are planning to walk off the job May 1st to protest... uhhh... the United States finally enforcing its laws? The illegals who are here are demanding amnesty from future persecution, essentially bypassing the process of naturalization.

Pundits are comparing this planned boycott to the Civil Rights protests of the 1960s, but I don't buy it. Then, people were protesting something truly deplorable - the "separate-but-equal" Jim Crow laws. Here, illegal immigrants are demanding an equality they have no right to. The United States has the power to grant nationality to those who have gone through legal channels. In 2004, more than a million people legally immigrated to the United States for a myriad of reasons. Many more were granted temporary visas.

The United States is at fault for having turned a blind eye to the growing influx of illegal immigrants, particularly from Mexico. Having been in the U.S. for any number of years, these people now feel they have a right to be here regardless of how they arrived.

It's not that I don't have sympathy for their cause. I do. As I've mentioned before, I know an illegal immigrant who is a perfectly nice guy and somebody I would want to keep in the United States. What I diagree with is the defiant manner in which this demographic is choosing to demonstrate... but they are defintely learning.

The first nationwide march earlier this month featured mostly protest signs and the flags of their original heritage. More recent demonstrations have featured mostly American flags. They've learned that reminding the rest of the country of their birthplace wasn't the smartest move.

This planned walk-out on May 1st is far more militant, attempting to demonstrate that American commerce depends on their labor. They absolutely have a point, but will this curry favor or simply drive the wedge that much deeper?

I'm guessing the latter. The 700 Club is going to have a field day with this one.

Robert Moses: Man of Vision or Monster?

2006-04-25T20:34:00.000-04:00

You've no doubt heard his name before, but who the heck was Robert Moses anyways?

Why does he have a Long Island beach named after him, or a park near Lincoln Center, or a causeway bridge, or an upstate parkway? I'm here to tell you - he was the most dynamic public administrator the City, the State, heck, the United States has ever known; a modern-day Jekyll and Hyde, he was a master-builder who did as much damage as good during his 40-year reign as czar of all things NY construction.

Within a month of moving to New York, I took a co-workers advice and endeavored to read Robert Caro's Pulitzer Prize-winning book The Power Broker, a biography of Robert Moses. Published in 1974, the 1,200-page book took quite a critical look at the myth of Moses, a man who was both hailed and hated during his lifetime. Though he would become a power-hungry freak during the latter third of his career, you simply can not visit, much less live in New York City without seeing/crossing/enjoying something he built. Here's just a short list of projects that were spearheaded by Moses:

Most of the public parks on Long Island including: Jones Beach, Robert Moses State Park, Hither Hills State Park, Montauk State Park, Oak Beach, Bethpage State Park, Wildwood State Park and Sunken Meadow State Park among many others
All the little triangular parks throughout New York City, like Herald Square
The Tri-Borough Bridge (!!!)
The Long Island Expressway
The Brooklyn Battery Tunnel
The Verrazano-Narrows Bridge
The Major Deegan Expressways
Throgs Neck Bridge
The Cross Bronx Expressway
Lincoln Center
Shea Stadium
The United Nations Building
The (now defunct) New York Coliseum
Two Worlds Fairs

And this list doesn't even include the work he did upstate near Niagara while serving as chairman of the Power Authority of the State of New York. The man was epic in scope, erecting the huge edifices of his time. He accomplished these amazing things by writing himself into law.

Early in his career, multiple Mayors and Governors turned to Moses to craft the language that would become law regarding public works. He deftly maximized a British concept of authorities - which were set-up as quasi governments independent of legislation. Authorities are granted the power to seek fares for use of public works - as on a turnpike - but unlike the British versions, his works continued to collect fares long after the work itself was paid for, allowing him to funnel funds into other enterprises. At one point, the guy held 12 city and state government positions simultaneously. This simply wouldn't happen today, and as evidenced by the controversy of the Jets Stadium plans for the West Side, or the redtape halting the 2nd Avenue subway, that sort of power is the only way to get things done.

On one hand, you have Jones Beach, the first beach-amusement park of its type in the country. On the other, you have the Cross Bronx Expressway, which displaced thousands of the City's poorest residents. They are the yin and yang of Moses' greatness - both major efforts, both still around today. But whereas Jones Beach was hailed as a masterpiece of construction that served both rich and poor alike, the Cross Bronx Expressway is considered one of many blights on his name.

Robert Moses was not a man to be messed with, and he didn't want to hear that his carefully designed plans needed to be altered to accommodate, you know, poor people. In that way, he was a cruel, vindictive man who made life miserable for literally HUNDREDS OF THOUSANDS of people (estimates are 250,000 people displaced). To build the Cross Bronx Expressway, there are some who feel he deliberately constructed his plans to mow down a number of residences rather than move it 20 yards in another direction, thus avoiding tremendous costs. To build Lincoln Center, he raised the slum buildings that were present there (can you believe it - 65th and Broadway was once an immigrant quarter). And he did these things with seemingly no remorse. He is known for having created the tenement building crises; cheap, crappy housing projects where displaced New Yorkers were forced. This was during a time when there were no programs in place to assist the poor, and as such, many were left destitute.

He built his parkways so trucks and large vehicles could not drive under the overpasses, requiring million of dollars of reconstruction later. He felt driving automobiles should be a leisurely activity, not a necessity. He very nearly single-handedly established Detroit's automobile industry by building hundreds of roads. He hated the concept of mass transit, pulling most of the funding for trains and subways which allowed them to deteriorate over time. He built just one pool in Harlem, being that he was a racist of the Nth degree. He rode everywhere in limos, never took $1 as compensation for any of it (choosing instead to expense everything to his several Authorities), and ultimately died broke.

Robert Moses was a complete tool, but also one of the great geniuses of the 20th century. This description doesn't even scrape the surface of his tremendous urban planning achievements. But like most great men, he had tremendous flaws; flaws that led to his own downfall.

Read the book. You'll own New York like no other book allows you to.

Pirates lose, a little piece of my soul turns black...

2006-04-24T22:42:00.000-04:00

Not feeling well today. I think I may have what has been going around, though I think it's being helped along by the allergies that usually crop up this time of the year.

It's no fun, feeling poorly. And to add insult to injury, my beloved Pittsburgh Pirates lost tonight. That would put their record at 5-16 on the season. After 13 losing seasons, I suppose a 14th doesn't hurt quite as much. I suppose...

Bah, why do I care so much?!? Why do I subject myself to the pain? Could my allegiance not shift to a winning team, and should I not rationalize that decision given the failure of the Pirates' ownership?!?

Why can't I be a bandwagon jumper like so many others?

Not the Original Human Beatbox, Too?!?!?

2006-04-20T21:39:00.000-04:00

Wikipedia just informed me that Doug E. Fresh is also a vocal member of the Church of Scientology. What a bummer. At least Soleil Moon Frye came to her senses.

Some people have criticized me for an "unfair opinion" of Scientology, perhaps bigoted. I can take that hit. I am indeed prejudicial to the rise of this cult, more so than other quasi-religious sects, even the more damaging ones. It's all about financing, and thanks to deep-pocketed celebrities and the U.S. government's tolerance of their practices (not to mention the expensive lobbyists the Church employs), Scientology is one of the fastest growing religious movements in the world... or so the Church itself claims. No one can confirm this bit of propoganda.

So, what's my beef? If it the fact that a tenant of the religion is that the souls of aliens live within us all, a product of an intergalactic round-up some 75 million years ago in which the evil ruler Xenu (of the Galactic Confederacy no less) brought billions of beings to Earth and blew them up with hydrogen bombs? Not really. Sure, I consider it a whack-job theory, but who am I to talk? I (admittedly tenuously these days) believe the Son of God walked amongst us only 2,000 years ago. Most religions are based on the paranormal, no doubt about it, so to scoff at one man's crazy belief system about "how we got here" is more than a little hypocritical.

No, it's the fact that no matter how you slice it, Scientology is a big old stinky cult. If it looks like a cult, and quacks like a cult, it probably is one. Those who have escaped it's evil clutches speak of preferential treatment for those with the money to help finance it. Brainwashing techniques are employed liberally. The system is set-up to hook the weak, fill their head with the Church's teachings and convince the person that financial support is the way to salvation. Perhaps most damaging, the Church's opinions on psychiatry (and modern medicine as a whole) are woefully stuck in the dark ages. Vitamins are considered a cure-all. Many have died while in the Church's care. Lisa McPherson is the most famous example.

Be wary of any religion that only reveals itself fully to those who have already spent a decade giving up worldly desires. Working through the system as an operating thetan (OT), Scientologists attempt to approach Level VIII, at which point they are taken out on a luxury cruiseship called the Freewind (no joke!) and given the secrets of the world. When you get to Level VIII, your mind is supposedly in the "clear" mode, and only then can the Church leaders tell you what's what. If that doesn't sound cultish, then perhaps you should give me $300 and I'll solve all your problems.

I've been stuck on Level II for years... I just can't defeat the giant mollusk at the final stage. It's impossible! I tried the cheat code (Down, Right, Left, Down, Down, Right, Up. Select ''Balanced Team'' and press A) - but even with my one-ups maxed out, Level III seems like an unattainable dream. My thumbs get sore.

Boycott Tom Cruise Movies

2006-04-18T22:05:00.000-04:00

Seriously. This guy needs a serious wake-up call.
The contract between Tom Cruise and Katie Holmes is finally fulfilled. Ms. Holmes gave birth to a baby - in thoery, a product of Mr. Cruise's seed. Unfortuantely for Katie, the baby was a lizard, not unlike the V: Series from the mid-1980s. Tom ate a mouse in celebration.

Actually, there was talk that he'd eat Katie's placenta after the birth. But most people think he was kidding. Most people...

Listen, Tom Cruise is out of control. I know you went to see War of the Worlds at the movie theater because it was a Spielberg movie. But this Mission Imposible III - let's boycott it. The previews for it suck, and if there was ever a guy who deserved to see what his big mouth has wrought, it's Tom "Mr. Scientologist" Cruise.

More about Scientology tomorrow...

2006-04-15T18:45:00.000-04:00

The mother of a child at J.C. Magill Elementary School in Lawrenceville, GA wants the Harry Potter series banned from school libraries countywide. She cites the following as reasons: "evil themes, witchcraft, demonic activity, murder, evil blood sacrifice, spells and teaching children all of this.”

Of course, she also admits having not read the books. Because, you know, controlling the reading habits of the county's elementary school population keeps her pretty busy. How could she possibly find the time to actually READ the books she wants removed? It's hard work being that closeminded and stupid.

Now, this parent might not be a puppet of her local pastor (I don't know anything about her), but history tells us that for every angry mother making such demands, there is a parish of supporters egging her on.

The Christian Right has waged a war against Harry Potter for years. Pat Robertson (pictured above) launched an all out attack on the series in 2001, denouncing the books as un-Christian. So what if it is? By that I mean, does everything have to necessarily be tied back to supporting the religion? They claim it teaches children about the occult. Does it advocate for witchcraft? Does it tell its readers to convert? No, it does none of those things.

Schools have already succumbed to political correctness in so many ways. A snowman is now called a 'snow-person.' The Pledge of Allegiance has been phased out of the 1st period homeroom activities. Science class has become a battleground of creationism vs. evolution. Ketchup is no longer considered a vegetable. It's anarchy!

If you don't want your child to read the Harry Potter books, that is your choice, though you're depriving your child of a rewarding experience. But to impose your judgment on the children of your neighbors is just misguided.

Nothing Else to Say...

2006-04-13T20:51:00.000-04:00

You can't make someone happy. You just can't! Happiness comes from within, from the frame of one's perspective. Unhappiness comes from the same source. If you view the world through a veil of hate, disgust, there is no amount of external force that can will you out of that state.

I've largely divorced myself from the emotion of it. I've allowed myself some semblence of the grieving process, but it won't take. People want to communicate their sorrow for you, but I feel somehow duplicitous... "No, no, you don't understand..." I'm just dazed. And sort of angry.

I went through this all before. And that time my emotional response was more real, more complex, than now... which is ironic if you think about it.

I'm sad. Believe me, no one can possibly know what my family's gone through, or how deeply this affects me. But I'm not stricken. I guess I refuse to be. If that was the point of this, if that somehow was a factor in the decision, then I refuse to grant that. "If we don't go on vacation, the terrorists win." If I go there, the emotional terrorist wins.

Maybe I need more time, to channel some kind of humanity, or to let it all out or something. I don't know. But time didn't do much before, why should that change. If anything, time has just hardened my resolve.

I'm okay. This too shall pass.

Really, there's nothing else to say.

Hiatus

2006-04-11T23:35:00.000-04:00

Getting my head straight... more soon.

Judas [—about nine lines missing] Misunderstood?

2006-04-09T16:05:00.000-04:00

Benedict Arnold may have just lost a partner in the historical doghouse.

According to a the Gospel of Judas, part of a 60+ page document called the Codex Tchacos, the vilified apostle was not only acting on orders from Jesus, but was perhaps a favored lieutenant given specialized instruction.

The National Geographic Society has been studying the codex since 2000 in conjunction with the Maecenas Foundation for Ancient Art in Switzerland. Its been a painstaking process. The papyrus document had rotted for 16 years in, of all places, a safety deposit box at a Citibank branch in Hicksville, Long Island. It had survived for 1700 years in reasonably good condition, thought to have been found by a farmer in a cave in Egypt. But the document was undone in less than two decades. We'll come back to that.

It is thought that the codex was written sometime in the 3rd or 4th century. Though it's not a complete document, there's enough in there to cast a major shadow of doubt on the official Biblical interpretation of the Jesus-Judas relationship. Take this passage, the most revelatory of the codex, as spoken by Jesus to Judas:

“You will become the thirteenth, and you will be cursed by the other generations—and you will come to rule over them. In the last days they will curse your ascent [47] to the holy [generation]... But you will exceed all of them. For you will sacrifice the man that clothes me.”

It is this passage in particular that got Bishop Irenaeus of Lyon's ire up in 180 A.D. Irenaeus is considered one of the founding fathers of the modern Catholic Church. He went on a crusade against what he considered "heretical documents" that offered a differing perspective on Jesus' teachings. Scholars had known of a possible "Gospel of Judas" from writings of Irenaeus that condemned the work as blasphemous. There were many gospels floating around at the time, but the only ones to make into the Orthodox Bible were the Gospels of Luke, Mark, Matthew and John.

The Gospel of Judas is believed to be "gnostic," one brand of Christianity that was prevalent in the first two centuries after Jesus' death. Broadly, Gnostics believed that personal insights derived from Jesus' teachings were more important than the worshiping of the man himself. Much of the Gospel of Judas refers to mysticism and cosmology, which may seem odd to modern-day Christians, but just goes to show the diversity of interpretations in the early years of the religion.

Unfortunately, the passage quoted above is surrounded by missing text. Twelve lines in total are missing that precede the revelation that Jesus ordered Judas to have him condemned to death. According to this document, there was no "betrayal by Judas," as popularly believed, but rather that he alone was chosen for the difficult mission because of his close relationship with Jesus. In effect, Judas may have been the most trusted, most important confidant in the Bible.

Too bad all those lines are missing. Which brings me to the wag of the finger for today. When the codex was found in the late 1970s, it somehow found its way into the hands of antiquities dealer Hanna Asabil. He tried to sell it at a secret showing in 1983, but when his asking price of $3 million was not met, he had a relative on Long Island secretly stow it. It is believed he had no idea what it said, as it was written in Coptic, a sort of Egyptian-Greek hybrid... kind of a Spanglish of its day. But he knew he had something of value, and rather than allow those who might unlock its mysteries have at it immediately, he nearly destroyed it. He may very well usurp Judas as, uh, the REAL Judas.

And, at the other end of the spectrum, let's not turn Dimaratos Tchacos into some kind of hero. Sure, she bought the codex from Asabil for $300,000 in 2000, but she didn't know what she was buying either. She offered to sell it to Yale University, who then told her what she had. She ended up selling it to the Maecenas Foundation for Ancient Art, thank God, and now its coming out. But Tchacos, who named the damn thing after herself, is nothing more than another "antiquities dealer," who was paid well for her discovery. She's spouting all sorts of religious mumbo-jumbo about her close relationship with Judas these days. But if the Indiana Jones movies have taught me anything, these sort of opportunistic types end up with the short end of the stick. Or else sleep with Harrison Ford and meet their maker in some nasty way.

Religion is always a sensitive topic, but lately we've seen an explosion of interest in Christianity. The Da Vinci Code has been a staple of the New York Times Best Seller list for more than 3 years, selling 40 million copies worldwide. The book offers another theory that spits in the face of the New Testament's teachings. This recent interest isn't in Christianity per se, but in conspiracy. It is believed the Catholic Church already has a copy of the Gospel of Judas in the bowels of the Vatican, along with all sorts of historical texts that are counter to the official story. How they respond to the Gospel of Judas will be very interesting.

Will this document shake anyone's faith? Maybe, but probably not significantly. I think most people assume Jesus knew Judas would betray him and that it was a part of the grand plan all along. But I wonder if devout Christians will consider that what they have held as a sacred text - The Bible - is just one take on the teachings of Jesus. In a demonstration of Darwin's theory, "survival of the fittest," the New Testament is what one sect of Christianity preferred over another.

How's that for irony?

"The Collected Works of Billy the Kid"

2006-04-07T10:27:00.000-04:00

Quick plug for a show my buddy Doug is in... come check it out! He says it's good!

The Collected Works of Billy the Kid by Michael Ondaatje
directed by Kareem Fahmy
with Nathan Blew, Rob Evans, Vivia Font, Steve French, G.R. Johnson,Kyle Knauf, Melissa Miller, Tony Neil, Ryn O'Connor, Doug Simpson

Performance Schedule:
Wednesday, April 19th at 8:00pm
Thursday, April 20th at 8:00pm
Friday, April 21st at 8:00pm
Saturday, April 22nd at 2:00pm
Saturday, April 22nd at 8:00pm

Ticket Prices:
General admission: $10
Students/Seniors: $5
Reservations: For reservations send an e-mail to BillyTickets2@gmail.com including your first and last name, number of tickets you would like to reserve, and for which performance. Claim your reserved tickets at least 15 minutes prior to showtime at the box office.

To purchase advance tickets online using TicketWeb click HERE or call 212-870-6784

For more information visit www.ColumbiaStages.com

TGIF: What a Week...

2006-04-07T08:01:00.000-04:00

Looking forward to the weekend, and a chance to write about something. Been coasting lately.

New Amsterdams concert next week... psyched.

Libby and Hurley: Lovers or Patients?

2006-04-05T21:33:00.000-04:00

I'm convinced the producers of LOST are just screwing with our heads.

So, Libby was in the same hospital as Hurley? Lends some credence to the "this-is-all-in-Hurley's-head" theory. The recurring numbers, the food dropping from the sky... at least they are giving us some sort of plausible premise. Until now its been all questions and no answers.

If it does turn out that this whole show is a big dream sequence, I'm going to be really ticked off.

I actually just had a really good conversation with a couple friends recently about the death of network television. I'm currently making my way through The Sopranos on DVD (I'm through the first 3 episodes of season 4), and it's really starting to become clear to me that a show as intelligent, nuanced and well-acted as The Sopranos would never make it on network television, and I'm not talking about the nudity, language and violence. It's about quality, and most network television I've had the misfortune to catch of late is chop-shop, "saw-that-coming-a-mile-away" dreck or reality crap.

Part of it comes from the fact that it is written to be interrupted every 7 minutes. How can you hold someone's interest when you're constantly cutting away to Alpo commercials?

But that's not the only reason. Unfortuantely, many Americans don't expect quality in their television programming. In fact, many Americans don't demand quality in most facets of their lives. A Hungryman frozen dinner, an ice-cold bottle of Budweiser, a Lay-Z-Boy recliner and a re-run of the Jeff Foxworthy show - in Macon, Georgia = priceless.

Your Level 6 Dwarf Just Direspected My Level 8 Elf!

2006-04-04T23:25:00.000-04:00

Okay, maybe I'm a little twisted, but this story made me laugh.

Have you heard of the World of Warcraft? I don't know too much about it, but as evidenced by this video, it's a wildly successful on-line role playing game that, on occasion, people take WAAAY too seriously.

Okay, I'm going to geek out for a moment - role playing games (or RPG) are computer simulations - like the popular SIMs games for Playstation/Nintendo - where people actually pay money to interact in bizarre scenarios with other social anxiety disorder sufferers. Some RPG are fantasy-based, with wizards and warlocks and such. Others are based in alternate realities, perhaps with the undead interacting with the living. Still others are "of this world," though may take place during a specific period, like 1850's Tokyo or BC Greece. But standing tall above them all is the World of Warcraft (or WoW for short), which has 6 million subscribers worldwide who pay between $10-$15 to essentially crawl under the covers and avoid interacting with real humans.

It seems somebody who played WoW died in real life (IRL), and his friends on-line decided to have a memorial service for him within the confines of the game. His group's opponents, sensing an opening, seized on the opportunity to attack the mourning players, creating a bloodbath of epic proportions... inside the game... where people were pretending to be witches and gargoyles.

This got the on-line friends of the dead guy really ticked off. Are we not humans... errr... imaginary creatures, with imaginary creature feelings?

First off, I think this is rather funny. And I know that kind of makes me a bastard, since a guy really died and his friends, out of respect, wanted to do something nice. But the resultant anger over the "attack," in a game where the very point is to conquer without remorse, sounds like sour grapes. Get over it boys (and I assure you, most of these players are boys). The real world, should you ever venture out in to it, is a cruel and unusual place.

Secondly, this got me thinking about my e-life, with multiple accounts I've created all over the Internet, from Friendster and MySpace, to that doomed week I spent surfing Match.com, to all of the various e-mail accounts I've created with multiple hosts since the beginning of time. Other than me, who knows about these accounts? And if something tragic were to happen to me, who would know where to go to cancel these digital reminders of me?

I'm going to try and write down every login and password I've ever created on the Internet and keep it someplace safe. That seems like a sensible thing to do. Or else, I'm going to create a Warcraft account and walk around as a leper with a heart of gold. Either way, my life is going to have purpose again.

HR4437: Just Another Brick in the Wall

2006-04-03T23:50:00.000-04:00

Damn! Talk about bringing down the hammer.

Illegal immigrants are about to get a rude awakening from lawmakers in Washington, as measures in both the House and Senate seek to make it a felony to be in the United States illegally. Further, the House bill calls for a 700-mile wall to be erected between Mexico and the United States. It's promised that the wall will be magnificent, made of pure gold with mother-of-pearl inlay and visible from the furthest reaches of outerspace!

Surely, the U.S. is taking a page from the long-envied Great Wall of China, which was erected to separate China from Mongolia. At the end of the 14th century, China had a real problem on its hands. The lowly Mongols were moving into China and attacking the Ming Empire where it hurt - in the fireworks trade. The Mongols made their fireworks cheaper and in a greater variety of colors. At an annual contest in Beijing hosted by Chinese ruler Zhū Yuánzhāng, Mongol outlaw Altan Khan shot his arrow through the arrow of a Chinese competitor in an archery contest, made out with the Chinese Princess and vanished into thin air - a cloud of smoke from a superior red firework obscuring his exit. China simply wouldn't be mocked in such a manner, and thus began the 300-year building of the Great Wall. Marco Polo showed up some time later and everyone jumped in the pool. Needless to say, it was a weird time in China.

If a hybrid of the House's HR4437 and a version of the earlier Kennedy-McCain bill in the Senate comes to pass, I'm going to have to find a new barber. Or else, buy him a wedding present. Either way, he's freaking out, and to be honest, I think it's affecting his work. Last week, I had to remind him of the proper care for a cowlick I know we've discussed numerous times and in great detail. And when I got home, my sideburns were roughly an 1/8th of inch off. He is clearly unnerved, and I'm supposed to be understanding?

I'd never known an illegal immigrant before moving to the City. I've been his longest customer, and I believe one of his first - having come to him for a cut during his first week of employment. Unlike so many illegals in America, he was able to remain in the trade he had studied in his homeland - a cash business that pretty much flies under the radar. He's a good guy with a great sense of humor, but I sometimes wonder why he didn't go through the proper channels to immigrate here. We often discuss the limitations of his situation - unable to rent a hotel room; unable to purchase airfare or train fare anywhere; unable to rent a car; unable to vote; unable to open a bank account... and I think he makes decent money as he's the most popular guy at the shop and has plenty of repeat customers. He recently told me he'd given up hope of finding a bride for love, and was contemplating a bride for necessity. It's sad really.

I don't know what to make of Mayor Michael Bloomberg's comments last Friday - on one level, I kind of agree with him insomuch as illegal immigrant labor has come to be relied on as a kind of indentured servitude in this country. Farmers, especially, depend on this cheap source of labor during harvest season, and even with government subsidies, are barely able to remain competitive with imported produce. On the other hand, from my personal experience, I know most illegals are unhappy with what they've had to give up to come to the land of opportunity. I suspect the guys at my Dunkin Donuts were former mathematicians and engineers, as they serve me my coffee with such utter contempt and debate the relative coefficient of friction of the espresso maker. I sympathize with their struggles, and would rather there was a way for them to legally stay here, pay taxes and become happy, productive citizens.

But I always come back to the fact that they didn't follow the rules. Sure, it's a grueling process to legally immigrate to this country, but hundreds of thousands of people do it every year.

I don't think putting up a wall between Mexico and the U.S. is the answer anymore than I think making it a felony to be here illegally is the way to go. As with my barber, we're going to see the rate of marriages of necessity rise for those who are already here and protests turn ugly.

There are no easy solutions. But I'm sure many of those debating this in the House and Senate need only trace their lineage back seven or eight generations to find an example of the United States' empathy in opening its borders to those less fortunate.

Disclaimer: In case the INS has nothing better to do than troll the blogosphere, I assert that the whole of this post is a theoretical piece, written from the perspective of a would-be filmmaker protagonist in the Los Angeles-area. In other words, there is no Barber of Illegal. He is but a figment of the writers imagination.

Opening Day 2006

2006-04-02T16:52:00.000-04:00

Whew, it's been a long two months.

From the moment the Steelers won the Super Bowl until today, I've had a real void in my Sunday schedule. Sure, spring training brings its own sense of excitement, but nothing beats the start of the 162-game Major League Baseball season.

The 25-players rosters are set, the games are meaningful and hope spring eternal for my lowly Buccos.

As long as I can remember, I've been a Pittsburgh Pirates fan. My mother's side of the family is from the Pittsburgh area and, for lack of a hometown team of my very own, Pittsburgh has long served as my sentimental favorite. No, I've never lived there (everybody's first question), but I've visted every year since birth. Numerous Christmas vacations were spent in the North Hills, with the annual trip to Station Square and the Ross Park Mall. I'd always thought I would live there someday while growing up, as it was my idea of a Big City, but I don't know if that will ever be in the cards. I leave a little door open to the possibility, probably always will.

The Pirates 'revamped' the team this past offseason, raising the payroll by 50% up to a whopping $46.7 million - a relatively paltry sum given the current state of professional baseball. But like a moth to a flame, I am once again pulled back into rooting for a team that hasn't had a winning season since 1992. Thirteen long years of losing more than they win.

I think this probably says more about my personality than anything. It takes a certain type of person to be so ferverently supportive of a losing cause.

Photo Credit: Yours truly, from the top of the Green Monster at Fenway Park in Boston

Enlistment

2006-04-01T14:58:00.000-05:00

Lately, I've told just about anyone and everyone I know about my sincere interest in joining the ranks of the U.S. military. It just seems like the right thing for me - I need discipline, and three squares a day and the feeling that my life has purpose.

So, dejected by another week in cubicle-ville, I found myself wandering in front of the Armed Forces Recruiting Station in Times Square. Looking up at the four seals of our country's miliary, I was overcome with a combination of duty and intestinal fortitude. Or maybe that was the burritos from lunch, I don't know, but I could tell something was shifting inside me. It started as a low grumble but was soon an internal tidal wave of something I'd never felt before - patriotism. I scarcely remember stepping through the doors of the station. It was like a dream.

Sgt. Franz Kilfer stamped my application and the deed was done. Navy. I told the Sarge I didn't really have sea legs and that I was afraid of the water, but he just smiled and told me I'd get over it once I reached camp. He was a really nice man.

So I'm going home, back to Florida and NAS Jax! I can tell I've made a very good decision here. At least now no one can say I'm un-American.

Props Shop

2006-03-30T22:35:00.000-05:00

Too many things are happening in my personal life for me to focus on the world of fashion or the eating habits of celebrities. On occasion, Wag of the Finger is going to dole out some pats on the back to the well-deserving. This week, I want to give some massive props to:

Anyone who is venturing out without a safety net. Damn, it isn't easy to say goodbye to the path you've been on and take the road less traveled. I respect that more than almost anything in the professional world. I know actors, musicians, writers, designers, freelancers - people who have said goodbye to the drudgery that is a 9-to-5 - working for someone they don't respect, doing a job they don't love - and have made it work. It takes a tremendous amount of bravery and a belief in the self. My hat is off to you.
Those who have made the great leap into marriage. I'm getting to that age where many of my friends and former acquaintances are starting to settle down and get married. Of late, I've been internalizing that - what does your marriage say about me? But I've made peace with it all. Committing yourself to another is a beautiful thing. I admire it, and I refuse to make it about me anymore. Congratulations.
Recent arrivals to the great City of New York. I'm not afraid to admit I think I live in the greatest city in the United States. I moved here exactly four years ago today (3/30/02) and haven't looked back even once. But I know its difficult adjusting to the rigors of city life. Getting here is only half of it; feeling like you belong here can take a very long time. I have no real good advice about that - I'm only now feeling like I belong - but keep at it. It helps to occasionally hip-check someone on a sidewalk. I'm not saying, I'm just saying.
Sports fans waiting for the bridge between football season and baseball season. I don't like NCAA basketball. The two month-long wait between February 5 and April 2 feels like an eternity. Go Buccos.

George Lucas: Hypocrite? Bantha Fodder?

2006-03-29T22:22:00.000-05:00

George Lucas received the "Global Vision Award" from the World Affairs Council this week, and made some eyebrow-raising remarks, criticizing Hollywood's choke hold on the rest of the world through what he calls "American cultural imperialism."

Not that I disagree with anything he said. I remember a fascinating dialogue I once had with the Polish ambassador to the United States - whose name I now forget but was a personal friend of a college professor of mine - who gave an impassioned speech to a small group of students about this very subject. In Poland, American culture is king, especially when it comes to entertainment. Re-runs of the nearly 20-year old soap opera Dallas (which Lucas references, by the way) relegate Polish-made television programs to non-primetime slots. Imported American movies, often sloppily dubbed into Polish, dominate the movie theaters. He said that Poles have grown to think of their own entertainment as grossly inferior to American counterparts, to the point that they have accepted it without question. Given the choice between an American film and a Polish film, not knowing anything more than where it came from, he said most Poles would choose the American-made film every time.

I raised my hand when he was finished, and perhaps to the shock of my classmates and certainly to my professor, former Washington political writer Victor Ostrowidzki, I asked (paraphrasing) - "So, what exactly do you expect Hollywood to do about that? It sounds to me like a problem for Poland's film industry to solve. Get competitive or get out of the way, right?" He paused for a moment, stared me right in the face and said: "No. I blame the U.S. film and television industries that have created a virtual monopoly on the world's entertainment." We debated for a bit until my professor, staring daggers in my direction, threw him a softball about Nazi Germany.

I believe the real solution is somewhere in the middle. There's no question that the marketing behemoth in Hollywood dwarfs the gross national product of some of the countries in which they market. And as far as technological advancements go, we seem to have a lock on some of the most creative minds in the business. Why would a filmmaker like Peter Jackson stay in his native New Zealand, or Ang Lee in Japan, when they can travel to America, play with expensive toys and make the big bucks. Our country absorbs the best and brightest the world has to offer, delivers their English-language product back to their homelands, and the countries themselves reap none of the tax profit. I can certainly understand the beef. But this is not simply a problem for Hollywood to tackle alone, ie: somehow not exploit a system that is so clearly in their favor. I place part of the blame on the countries themselves. If it's such a big problem, and clearly some think it is, then a public relations campaign in conjunction with some carefully placed tax incentives could partially reverse those stereotypes. Of course, it's always easier to try and shame those more successful than you.

Which brings me back to Mr. Lucas, who redefines the term Hollywood success. It's just, I'm sorry man, it's hard to take you and your social commentary seriously given the $4.3 billion (yes, BILLION) your Star Wars franchise has earned worldwide. And nearly half of that princely sum came from overseas distribution. You want to talk about contributing to America's cultural imperialism - George Lucas is the living embodiment of might-makes-right entertainment.

I will give him this - he was the first and loudest advocate for digitizing movie theaters, a move that could lessen the death grip film distributors have on our viewing habits. Imagine, rather than having to pay for thousands of expensive film reels, or doing a deal with the profit devil to get a distributor, filmmakers could literally beam their finished products to movie houses. The saved money could go towards, oh, I don't know, QUALITY FILMMAKING? The whole blockbuster-mentality of Hollywood would shift, in theory, as the increased competition would ferret out the over-hyped but under-whelming schlock. I believe we are already seeing this happen in the new mp3-happy music industry, though it will never be a perfect system.

Just something to think about. And George, the next time someone gives you a shiny plaque for being, and I quote, "Like Mozart.. he is a magician. He will be remembered as a legend." - just smile and thank 20th Century Fox for signing away its sequel and merchandising rights to you in 1977.

Random Complaints: 3/29/06

2006-03-29T07:04:00.000-05:00

It's bad enough that a cab ride from virtually anywhere in Manhattan to Astoria, Queens costs somewhere north of $15, but do I really have to beg for the ride in the first place? Being turned down by a taxi driver, when you know they are supposed to take you wherever you want BY LAW, ticks me off. I end up, hat in hand, asking if a cab driver would please take me home, please... do your job.
I get it now; all those assignments in college you dreaded, where your professor forced you into groups of four to work collaboratively on a project due weeks away, were supposedly preparing you for the real world office culture. Except rarely in the real world are four employees of equal stature ever asked to collaborate. They should have told us that.
I realized last night that I've forgotten nearly all of the German language that I ever learned. I can't even remember how to say the word "forgot." Vergessen? That's a guessen. You got to use it or you'll lose it.
Good people are good people are good people. If you aren't, you should be.
What's up with people posting the intimate details of their lives on the Internet? Seems to me to be a conceited exercise in invited voyeurism. Keep it to yourself.
So anyways, when I was six years old, after a severe case of chickenpox that left me scarred on the outside AND on the inside, I was very sad and...

Desperately Seeking the "Culture of Exploration"

2006-03-27T21:58:00.000-05:00

I'll admit, I was never one of those kids who dreamed of one day becoming an astronaut. I think of my father's generation of little boys, crowded around 12-inch black and white television sets, their secret decoder rings on, a glass of Ovaltine within reach, watching a CBS documentary on Alan Shepard and dreaming of the day when they too would jump on a rocketship to infinity and beyond. The Cold War was very much alive, and it must have been a keen dream to have at the time - get me the hell off this rock.

Any interest in the noble profession of space exploration evaporated for me on January 28, 1986, when me and several of my classmates witnessed the explosion of the space shuttle Challenger. I was in elementary school in Boynton Beach, FL, standing out on the playground and staring at a blip in the sky way off in the distance. The teachers seemed to know something had gone wrong as we were briskly escorted back into class. The televisions were on in the classrooms, and from that point forward, I knew leaving this planet wasn't something for which I was willing to risk my life.

So, it is with a stifled yawn and a touch of incredulousness that I read of NASA's plans to land on the moon, again, as an intermediary step to sending humans to Mars. President Bush announced his grand plan for this during the State of the Union address in 2004, and I remember thinking of it as just a stream of rhetoric meant to take our attention away from the very expensive war in the Middle East. Now it appears he was serious, or at least, not lying. With Dubya, it's hard to tell what we should believe.

What struck me about this Washington Post article was the assertion by NASA that one major hurdle to the project is the need for U.S. citizens to "reacquire what planetary scientist Christopher P. McKay of NASA's Ames Research Center calls 'our culture of exploration.'"

In addition to figuring out how to invent the machinery that will get us there and how to sustain life once we arrive, NASA's public relations department must be working overtime on coloring books for 4th graders. They could start by sponsoring the upcoming MTV Music Awards, live from Cape Canaveral with MoonMan statues made of real lunar rocks and interstellar bling. If the project is going to take until 2020 to complete - and that's admittedly a rosy and unlikely timeline - it will be important to get to the kids who will one day be taxpayers.

My generation and younger, thanks to the Challenger and Space Shuttle Columbia explosions, aren't buying what NASA's selling.

Artwork by Jimmy Lawlor - The Molesworth Gallery

Wag of the Caption Vol. 1

2006-03-26T20:29:00.000-05:00

There are any number of caption contests in the blogosphere, so how about one more? Study the above picture, click the "Add a Comment" button below and add a caption. Deadline for submission is March 31.

I'll get it started: "Mr. President, it's pronounced Ha-mas. Those are a's..."

The ultimate test of "who, if anybody, is reading this anyways..."

And the winner is...... MartiniX. Bawdy, sure, but hilarious:

"I've practically got my entire hand in now George - you STILL don't feel anything?"

The Doll Head: Significance?

2006-03-25T11:35:00.000-05:00

I missed a day! I went nearly a full week without neglecting this, but missed Friday. Unfortuantely, I think that will have to be a rule. Fridays are out. What, eight days a week is not enough to show I care?

"So, what's with the doll head?" I get this all the time. Most people who have been to my apartment will take in everything and then freeze on this strange item that rest on the top of my wind-up wall clock. For some, it's even off-putting. Others, though only a few, will actually go up to it to get a better view. "Ummm, what the hell is it? What's the significance?"

In case this picture does not illustrate clearly enough, the doll head has multi-colored paper flowers blossoming from the mouth and the top of its skull. The gaze is slightly to stage left (our right).

The piece had originally been attached to a project my college roommate completed for an art class. She was an art major, and if I remember correctly, they were asked to represent "knowledge," in whatever way they chose to infuse that into their work. The head was originally attached to an old CPU unit for a computer which had been peeled open at the top. Pieces of metal and the innards of the CPU created a kind of cradle for the doll head. "Out of this technological age - knowledge!" Perhaps she was trying to symbolize the growth process for children in the digital age, with the world so small and the stimuli so vivid.

In any case, when the project was graded and returned to her, it sat in our living room for the rest of our time together. When she moved to Gainesville, FL for her final-semester internship, we divided the contents of the house; mostly furniture we'd purchased while living there together. I still have the glass coffeetable and endtable from that day. I asked if I could have the doll head, though not the computer it was attached to, for "sentimental reasons." I can't help but think of her, our conversations, the growth of me as a living, breathing, THINKING human being whenever I look at it. Many of my college friendships, including this one, faded over time. But the baby head has been proudly displayed ever since.

Sure, it creeps people out. That's just the cherry on top!

Snakes on a Plane: The Spontaneous Generation

2006-03-23T22:06:00.000-05:00

Disclaimer: I realize I'm about a week/month/year behind every other blog/message board/geek site with this post. I don't care. I've already received criticism for doing "yet another SNL sucks blog post." I'm not trying to break new ground here, at least, that's not why I started doing this. So, if you are one of those who is already in-the-know about this topic, then feel free to move on. There is nothing to see here.

Snakes on a Plane, the title of the summer-release from New Line Cinema starring Samuel L. Jackson, doesn't leave much to the imagination. One look at the official teaser trailer - available here - gives you pretty much everything you need to know: Samuel L. + a bunch of what appear to be poisonous and/or rabid snakes + an airplane = a big load of crap. You know it, I know it, the theatergoing public knows it. So why is this film, which would usually open to a largely teenage audience and disappear into oblivion, gaining such notoriety? I guess you can call it the "Internet effect."

The buzz started when Josh Friedman, a Hollywood screenwriter and journalist, discussed the script and the name of the film, for which he'd been asked to a script polish, on his blog - I Find Your Lack of Faith Disturbing (warning=profanity). That really got the ball rolling. The various geek sites exploded with glee, that a film with such an inane working title was actually in development. Then the name of the film was changed and the fandom world was up in arms. In March, IMDB re-listed the official title of the movie - S.O.A.P. for short - and its summer release date. That's a pretty shoddy presentation of the sequence of events, but you get the picture. Do a search on the title and you're apt to find hundreds of references. Given all this buzz, the producers recently authorized a recut of certain scenes to include profanity in an effort to achieve an "R" rating. In effect, they had transcended the intended teen-cult audience.

What interests me most is the adoption of the title by the Internet community as a sort of catchphrase meaning "oh well, what are you going to do?" or "man, that is some wacky shiz." You know, whatever, "snakes on a plane." Suddenly, this little lowbrow film has entered into the pantheon of Internet catch-phrases, up there with "ORLY?" and "pwned!" But unlike those rather innocuous phrases, this one is tied to a major motion picture, and one that doesn't even open for another five months. How does something like this happen, and is there any conceivable way to package it, like lightening in a bottle, and replicate it? Surely, this very question keeps marketing types up at night.

I say no. People know when they are being fed lines, marketing ploys, and though they may still engage, their heart won't be in it the same way. Spontaneous generation. No, I'm not talking about maggots - more on this reference here - I'm talking about the generation of information seekers who, while forgoing the trappings of mainstream culture, create their own little e-world that, on occasion, becomes the pulse of the here and now. And yes, I'm coining that phase. (How do I make a trademark sign on Blogger?)

I mentioned in another post the calling of "9+5" whole cards in Texas Hold'em "the Dolly Parton." I've heard it called that in a variety of games, with different people who've never met each other. How did that happen? Did we all read it in the same book, see the same commercial? How was the Bible passed on from person to person before its first publication hundreds of years after the fact? How did everyone in the 9th grade know, within minutes of the fact, that I'd passed wind while asleep in Intro to Government class? The obvious answer is "word of mouth." We are influenced by the gatekeepers of knowledge in our lives. The Internet just expands that pool.

Fifty, thirty, heck, ten years ago, it was a completely different ballgame. In a time when advertisers are scratching their heads, trying to figure out ways to place their products to avoid the TiVO fast-forward, they would be smart to pay attention to the phenomenon that is Snakes on a Plane.

As for the film itself, I'm sure it will be an awful, campy piece of garbage. But, you know, what are you going to do? That's Hollywood. Snakes on a plane...

- Special thanks to Wikipedia - more on this topic can be found here

Thish Day inn Hishtory: March 22, 1933

2006-03-22T23:37:00.000-05:00

In honor of the passage of the 21st Amendment to the United States Constitution, I drank Bud Lite at a Hooters in Midtown Manhattan tonight. Draining my mug of cheap, tasteless, American-made brew, I gave thanks to former governor of New York, Franklin Delano Roosevelt, who gave the gift of legal drunkenness back to the American people.

The 21st Amendment reversed the 1919 Volstead Act, a misguided and ultimately damaging piece of legislation that brought about the dark period in our nation's history known as Prohibition.

What a crappy year that must have been! Sure, we'd won the Great War, but at what cost to our national identity? The Black Sox scandal shocked the sports world. The rise of the unions brought about the Steel Strike of 1919. Fittingly, Frank Baum died in 1919. and like his novel The Wizard of Oz played out in reverse, the country was thrust into a black and white, "us vs. them" mindset. And it was during this period that reform groups pressured legislators to make the creation, sale and consumption of alcohol a crime. It was thought that Prohibition would decrease criminal activity, reduce taxes and ultimately solve everyone's problems.

As we know, none of those things happened. If anything, Prohibition led to MORE crime with the rise of the Mob and gangsterism, and it cost the country plenty to enforce. For a dozen years, leading into the Great Depression (when, surely, all anybody wanted was a drink), it was illegal to consume alcohol in this country anywhere but in a church. Thankfully, FDR saw the legalization as a potential boon to depressed the economy. Plus I understand he enjoyed a nip on his flask now and again.

He understood: alcohol, in all its varied forms, is as American as apple pie... ala mode... with a shot of bourbon to wash it down.

Jimmy McMillan for NYS Governor - 2006

2006-03-21T22:23:00.000-05:00

Just in case you thought his failed bid for Mayor last year would derail his brilliant political career, fear not New Yorkers! No, I'm not talking about Freddy Ferrer or Anthony Weiner. Everyone's favorite "rent activist" Jimmy McMillan is still on the job!

He has announced his intention to enter the 2006 race for New York State Governor. Thank God for that! A campaign season in New York without this nutjob wouldn't be much fun.

He has a relatively straightforward platform - that rent in New York City is far too high for poor people to afford. But he also mixes in a fair amount of conspiracy theorist mumbo-jumbo, including that he was abducted by members of Al-Qaeda that were living in New York City before the first attack on the World Trade Center in 1993.

Sure, he might be just a tad nutty, but try getting his theme song out of your head. "Oooh weee..." He has a CD for sale, as well as several books and a DVD. I'm not as big a fan of "Eviction Notice" - you can't dance to it.

He estimates that 3 million New Yorkers will join him for a protest this summer. Get out your Palms and mark this down - Tuesday, July 11, 1:00 pm. Plenty of time to buy his DVD, study up on the cause, register to vote in one of the nine counties that recognizes his party, make a tinfoil hat, get a big foam "jobless crisis" finger and join him on the steps of City Hall.

Because, you know, there is nothing else to talk about.

Bird Flu to you too...

2006-03-20T21:07:00.000-05:00

Saw this delightful bit of news today:

U.S. gov't sees bird flu likely in U.S. this year

According to U.S. Interior Secretary Gale Norton: "It is increasingly likely that we will detect the highly pathogenic H5N1 strain of avian flu in birds within the U.S. borders possibly as early as this year."

I know, we've heard this all before, but as the guy who spent this past Halloween dressed as the human embodiment of The Asian Bird Flu (“It’s a Pandemic!”), it is perhaps with a twinge of guilt that I have monitored the global spread of this thing. When you see no more posts to this blog come July, you'll know that karma exists.

Sure, attribute it to overpopulation, or the uncontrolled mating habits of wild and domestic fowl, but isn't that just a blame game? I believe in modern medicine's ability to save me from whatever Mother Nature might throw our way, especially in a capitalistic economy.

The answer is clear: The Peter Sarsgaard-brand SARS Guard.

Yep, salvation in the 5-to-1 slot.

Beware the Ninja!

2006-03-19T20:04:00.000-05:00

I love Texas Hold 'Em. There, I said it. I love the game - I'm enamored of every part of it. It's ridiculous to get so excited about a game, but I do and I am. I look forward to it all week. We have a pretty regular every-other-week game of limit Hold 'Em in Astoria. I'm starting to develop a taste for no-limit, though.

The Filthy Ponchos (don't ask) have a number of slang terms for hands in Texas Hold 'Em, some industry standard, others from the warped depths of the imagination:

2 + 7 (or 3 + 7) = 'The Ninja' ('cause you never see it coming)
9 + 5 = Dolly Parton
K + A = Big Slick
A + A = American Airlines -or- Pocket Rockets
Trip 6's = Mark of the Beast
Everyone in for the flop = Family Pot
Two in for the flop = Donald Rumsfeld
Three in for the flop = Pat O'Brien
Bad Beat = When a good hand is beaten by a lucky draw, usually on 5th Street

I know there are others. Anyone care to add to the list?

Live, from New York, it's Mainstream Crap

2006-03-19T14:18:00.000-05:00

I promise, at some point, I really do want to tackle "issues of substance," but for the time being, I'm content to tackle lesser subjects.

And I can think of no better description for the current state of Saturday Night Live, a show with so much tradition and so little in the way of quality anymore. I don't want to get off on a rant here (God bless Dennis Miller), but the show sucks these days. I don't know if it's the writing, or the cast transition that seems to be happening, but the show has lost its bite. Maybe the 61-year old Lorne Michaels is to blame, but I haven't been this frustrated with the show since the last major cast change of 1999, when the Cheerleaders and Mango were forced down our throats. That all turned out okay, I guess, though I was never much of a Jimmy Fallon fan. Were it not for Will Ferrell and Darrell Hammond, I think the show would have gone in this direction far sooner - lame returning characters, poorly-written political satire, a Weekend Update that lacks the stinging humor that was its hallmark, guest hosts forced into every sketch to increase exposure. It's not just "Saturday Night Dead" anymore - the show has had its share of low points throughout its history - no, I'm talking about a shift of substance resulting in a tired formula. It's like Stephen King after Needful Things, Aerosmith after Pump, Robin Williams after Mrs. Doubtfire - formula sells, even it pales in comparison to its once great self.

Sadly, SNL is just limping along - "a so-so restaurant in a good location" as Gilbert Gottfried has been quoted as calling it. It has been usurped, in every conceivable way, by the upstarts in Midtown West - the writers behind the Daily Show and the Colbert Report. That crew, as evidenced by the hilarious Oscars telecast and the power hour of comedy Monday through Thursday on Comedy Central, have stolen the topical-comedy throne from the establishment - the ESTABLISHMENT - that SNL has become. SNL was founded as an alternative to the mainstream Johnny Carson/Carol Burnett brand of comedy that was prevalent in the mid-1970s. Now, it's the staid comedy establishment, trying hard to remain hip but failing miserably. A wag of the finger to Lorne Michaels - you may not be a bear, but you are clearly dangerous in your own sexagenarian way. Your time has come. As Stephen Colbert would say, "you are on notice."

The one thing they've done right this season - and I don't even know if it's fair to call it a 'good move' - was swallowing-up the Lonely Island comedy troupe and actually giving them some before-midnight airtime. In my mind, the highlights of the season, and the only bits that have really worked, have been the Digital Shorts - "Lazy Sunday," "The Natalie Portman Rap," "Lettuce," to name just a few - which have easily become the high points of the show. You can hear an audible rustling in the audience when the logo comes up - "An SNL Digital Short" - like, "Okay, we're ready to laugh, thank God for these guys." It's that same sort of feeling you get when Eddie Murphy's photo comes up during the opening montage of the 1981-1982 season - "this is guy we came to see." Even when they miss, like the weird Steve Martin short with Will Forte where they stand two inches away from each other, it's at least inventive, and a break from the weak sketches. All SNL has done is take these three young writers, an already- established group, and stamp the SNL tag on their work. The comparison to Corporate America-style takeovers is too easy to make.

I saw Horatio Sanz at the Upright Citizens Brigade's ASSSCAT 3000 last Sunday, and was surprised to find him to be credible at improv. At least when he breaks character there it serves a purpose. Perhaps SNL could hire one of the UCB teams to come in and do a weekly spot. I can see it now - "An SNL Improv Short." Amy Poehler could negotiate the 16-show contract.

Baby, You're a Rich Man Too...

2006-03-18T14:42:00.000-05:00

I was really into The Beatles once upon a time. And when I say "really into," I mean slightly obsessed, and when I say "The Beatles," I mean Ringo Starr. Wait, no, that's a lie. It was Pete Best.

Ahhh, Pete Best. The 5th Beatle. Who can forget his drumming on the obscure 1962 bootleg recording of "Love Me Do." That rimshot at 1:03! What genius! He was dismissed from group and replaced by Ringo Starr just before stardom. A tragedy, clearly.

No, I was a real freak for the Beatles from 1988 through 1992. Those were the years when I listened to roughly nothing else. Though I learned to appreciate other music of the era, and even came around to the alternative music of the time, the Beatles will always hold a special place in my heart. Like most kids, I started with Sgt. Peppers Lonely Hearts Club Band, a seminal recording I can barely listen to anymore. In truth, it really isn't all that good. I credit George Martin, the Beatles' longtime producer, for taking the snippets of songs and turning it into something. I still think "A Day in the Life" is an amazing, brilliant song, but I think I listened to the album so often, I burned it into my mind. To listen to it now is to somehow obscure that memory, and it never achieves what my 11-year old mind made of it. Don't get me wrong; it's better than 99.9% of what came after it, but I've lost something for it. It's sad, really. I still love theme reprise, though. Looking back, The Beatles never really rocked, or at least not very often, and that has a tremendous beat. Of course, I wonder what Pete Best would have done given a crack at it, but that is neither here nor there.

From Sgt. Peppers, it was on to the White Album, or simply The Beatles if you want to get technical about it. That double-album is simply too much to digest, and I could do a whole post about it alone. Sadly, it shows the bandmembers beginning to drift from each other. Their time with the Maharishi was the last true togetherness the band would experience, and Ringo ate some bad curry and left early. That damn Ringo... Pete Best's gastrointestinal system could have handle a little spice. But I'm getting off topic... The White Album, for me, is all about "Revolution #9," a bizarre, whacked-out track, influenced by Yoko's 'art' and the least tuneful piece the band ever put on vinyl. And yet, to my pre-teen ear, it was like watching pornography - it was weird, naked, way out there, and completely captivating. I know most people hate that song, but I must have listened to it a hundred times one summer, trying to decipher - what - meaning? Some reason it was made in the first place? This was before the Internet, and before I owned the library of critical interpretations I own now. I, alone, was charged with the purpose of figuring out why this cacophony would be placed between "Cry Baby Cry," another fantastic song, and "Good Night," a Ringo schmaltz-fest that, following such an out-there composition as "Revolution #9," always made me kind of angry. Now I just think it's brilliant.

Let's be clear - I loved each and every song. Every single one. I knew them by heart. I thought they were speaking to me, to my life, to my situation. The suite on Side B of Abbey Road was like going to church, and each transition was a sacrament. "The love you take is equal to the love you make." I thought that defined something for me, and for a time, it did more for my interpersonal relationships than anything in Sunday School. The early stuff: "How can you laugh when you know I'm down." Tell me about it, John. Age 11, I'd recently moved, yet again, to a new school, a new town. The Beatles got me through it all. I'll always love them for it.

So, what's my favorite album, you might ask? It's changed over the years, but like most true fans, I choose Revolver as the perfect album. Each of the three main writers is represented in full and each song is a masterpiece. "Tomorrow Never Knows" remains my favorite Beatles/Lennon tune. It comes to you from another world completely.

I found myself standing in an apartment at the Dakota bulding last year, having crossed the entrance where John Lennon was shot dead in cold blood by Mark David Chapman. The whole experience gave me chills. I'd been there before, sure, OUTSIDE the building. But to enter it, as John must have done thousands of times before that tragic day - what can I say? I got choked up. And he was just beginning to write again...

I'll end with this: the Beatles put out 12 LPs from 1963 to 1970 - a space of roughly 6 and a half years. Can you imagine any group being that prolific these days without putting out some pretty bad music in the process?

And, in case you were wondering, the answer is no. And Pete Best was a hack.

Mr. Toad Takes His Final Ride

2006-03-18T14:38:00.000-05:00

Okay, we're going old school on this shiz. This 'editorial' comes to you from the December 7, 1998 edition of the Flagler College Gargoyle, and is perhaps the thing I'm most proud of - and that includes my 2-year old baby boy and the peace agreement I orchestrated in Rowanda:

"I'm hopping mad.

In an effort to spruce up the now more-than-quarter-century old Magic Kingdom, the ad wizard at Disney have decided to close Mr. Toad's Wild Ride, a staple of Fantasyland at Orlando's Magic Kingdom since it opened in 1971. On September 7, 1998, Mr. Toad took his final ride, Replacing it physically, though not in our hearts, will be a ride based on the popular Winnie the Pooh series.

You heard me right. Toad is being replaced by Pooh.

For those of you who forget or were not fortunate enough to experience it for yourself, Mr. Toad's Wild Ride is based on The Adventures of Ichabod and Mr. Toad, a 1949 Disney film which is in turn loosely based on Kenneth Grahame's novel The Wind in the Willows. Ride participants, as a recent Disney pamphlet describes, "hop in Mr. Toad's motorcar and drive to Nowhere in Particular... crash through a fireplace, narrowly miss colliding with a tree stump, and blast through a haystack on this zigging and zagging ride."

Until a friend of mine informed me of Mr. Toad's recent demise, I was under the naive impression that in the land of Disney, nothing ever dies, unless it was a villainous bad guy. My friends, Mr. Toad is no bad guy.

Since Disney owns so much land in the Lake Buena Vista area, wouldn't it make more sense to increase the overall area of the Magic Kingdom? Instead of shutting down Mr. Toad, build the Winnie the Pooh ride as an extension of the park and renovate the existing attraction to bring Mr. Toad into the 21st century.

It's not as if precedence for this kind of action doesn't already exist. The Dumbo Ride was given an overhaul, allowing for more passengers; Snow White's Adventure was redone to make it less frightening for young riders. Heck, even the Swiss Family Treehouse recently got a make-over. If these lame attractions get this sort of treatment, doesn't Mr. Toad deserve at least the same?

Disneyland's version of Mr. Toad was revamped just a few years ago. Why do Californians get to participate in the Toad ritual while Floridians are meant to suffer?

Why? Because as much as they like to pretend it isn't, the Walt Disney Company is just that - a corporation. Though Disney made its money by 'becoming our childhoods,' the company is only interested in nostalgia if it can net a tidy sum for the company.

Truth be known, installing the Winnie the Pooh ride in an already established location and structure probably does save some costs. Disney has attempted to support its decision by claiming Mr. Toad's Wild Ride is outdated and too frightening for young children. This from a company that has kept It's a Small World chugging all these years and has created such truly frightening rides as the Twilight Zone Tower of Terror. No, it's obvious the customer will gain nothing more from these actions than a replacement to a ride synonymous with tradition.

Mr. Toad's Wild Ride, as it turns out, is not the first ride to be closed by Disney. On Labor Day 1994, 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea took its final voyage. Mission to Mars was replaced by the ExtraTerrorestrial Encounter a year later. No doubt, 20,000 Leagues and Mission were also deemed 'no longer profitable' by Disney.

Perhaps I'm overreacting. But ask yourself a question: What will happen when your favorite ride is suddenly phased out because it is outdated and no longer a money-maker for Disney? Shall we say farewell to the Pirates of the Caribbean, the Tea Cups, or even the Haunted House, without a fight?

It's like I already toad you; I'm hoppin' mad."

Wow. So idealistic then. We still had the Year 2000 bug to worry about, but look at me! Taking on corporate America!

I'm still waiting for Tea Cups: The Movie. It'll probably star the vocal talents of Jessica Simpson and Aaron Carter.

(Sigh) My misspent youth...

My Id Wants to Fight Your Id –or – Checks and Balances: Ya’ll is WHACK!

2006-03-18T14:07:00.000-05:00

Man, some people are really messed up

(I'd thought at first about posting the above sentence by itself, and let it serve as the whole of this post. But then, I have more to say on the matter. When don't I? Still, it would have been a fairly minimalist approach to the topic, constituting of fewer words than the title itself. But I'm rarely, if ever, that brief or that coy.)

I never really studied Sigmund Freud for any significant amount of time. I left that to the philosophy majors, talking in circles on some sort of acid trip of reflexive thought. I think we covered the whole of the man's work an entire lifetime of dissecting the human mind in a two-part Theory of Knowledge class. It was around that same time that we learned about his Oedipal Complex, which severely grossed me out, so I just dismissed Freud altogether. But his theory of human psychology pops up for me personally now and again.

I think we've all heard of the ID, the EGO and the SUPEREGO. They are like the Three Stooges of the inner-self, tweaking each other ad nauseum for the enjoyment of others. The EGO steals the ID's nose; the SUPEREGO bashes both of their heads together. The ID is Curly - full of foibles, grasping at the here and now, incapable of seeing the forest for the trees, sensitive to criticism and generally low man on the totem pole. The EGO is Larry - the outward projection of how we compensate for the fears of the ID, the middleman. The SUPEREGO is Moe - the leader that internalizes the idealized world, in direct conflict with Curly (the ID) and mediated by Larry (the EGO).

Notice the title of this post. I don't have a problem with ego. Ego is healthy. Ego keeps us going. "He's so egotistical." What does that really mean anyways? It means the person is perhaps overcompensating for the irrational fears and insecurities contained within the Id, but a healthy Ego is a needed thing. It gets us out of bed in the morning. It combats that pesky Id, which would much rather sit around self-gratifying (interpret that as you will) than face others and the challenges of life.

Curly doesn't know how to shut it off. He listens to Larry and Moe, but in the end, he's primitive and not self-aware. To the casual observer looking in from the outside, Curly is easily the most enjoyable Stooge. He klutzes all over the place, gets Larry and Moe in trouble and resonates with the audience's inner sense of fallibility.

But if Curly was somebody you knew intimately, as with Larry and Moe, that kind of behavior gets old quick. Conversely, someone overcompensating for these irrational fears is apt to come off as "egotistical" or "smug." By smacking down insecure thoughts through outward projections of superiority, one chooses to embrace, instead, the sense of infallibility, ie: "I am always right, and it is the people surrounding me who are wrong when they disagree with my assertions."

I contend that the problem isn't ego, or even "ego to the extreme" that comes with overcompensation, but with the root insecurities. One who is at base insecure would appear to others as supremely confident to a fault. It is then up to those who know the individual well to determine whether this outward projection is the true self or a mask to hide inner demons. Plenty of marriages are founded on this dynamic, ie: "I will not change, she/he will learn to deal with what I project, we will argue about it but I am basically finished evolving." By never addressing those insecurities, the Id-driven individual places the onus on others.

We are all guilty of this to some degree. Who wants to sit around and figure out what our real problems are? Further, who has the guts to change his/her actions to address the root cause of the problem? The answer is few, but that doesn't make it any less important.

"If you really think I'm going to change my ways because of some stupid post on a blog, you are extremely wrong."

True 'dat. There's a curly in my soda pop. Embrace that, Stooge.