Rolling Bones

That's So Gay!

2011-06-27T11:04:00.003-04:00

Nice job, corrupt and egomaniacal New York legislators. You've done something right for a change. Now it's time for California to get its act together. And the federal government, while we're at it.

Not long from now, we'll look back on this time with a sense of absurdity. Gay people couldn't marry? It's like how a judge in 1960 send a woman home for wearing pants to court. Or black people drinking from special water fountains and not being able to do just about anything.

Most of my thoughts on the matter can be found in this post and the comment below it. We are at a turning point. Those who oppose gay marriage will get left behind just like always in a country founded on freedom and equality.

Do I Have To Say His Name? Do I Have To Speak His Name?

2011-06-19T03:18:00.003-04:00

And Last But Not Least...

2011-06-19T02:11:00.006-04:00

I hope you had a chance to see it. I hope you weren't one of those people who thought it wasn't for you or who never had the money or couldn't find the time. Because it's gone now. And it's never coming back.

The Big Man has left a big hole.

It's a big hole in the hearts of all who knew and loved him. Not a small group, it appears. But I never met the man. Only imagined I had. And loved him all the same.

No, I don't have memories of inspiring his tremendous smile, shaking his giant hands, jamming in the studio or hanging out in his den watching whatever it is he watched on TV (For some reason, I imagine it was lots of "CSI: Miami").

Instead, what I've got are permanent marks where blasts of saxophone scorched my soul.

Which is an odd thing for a white Jewish boy growing up in the suburbs. Because it's not like the good kind of saxophone music gets taught at school or played much on the radio. John Philip Sousa marches, Kenny G, and that guy from the Tina Turner band that looked like Fabio didn't exactly inspire much more in me than some kind of a brain rash.

And I didn't discover the likes of Coltrane and Sonny Rollins until much later.

But it was clear from the first time I heard a Springsteen record that Clarence Clemons provided something urgent and necessary to The E Street Band. A brassy bellow that called back to the Stax and Motown sounds Springsteen carried into the 70s even if his audience remained largely monochromatic.

Clarence meant everything. This was an integrated band. This was a brotherhood. It was no thoughtless happenstance that led Bruce to pose with Clarence on the cover of "Born to Run," beaming with giddy pleasure. It was a statement of purpose. As ballsy and unabashedly sentimental as the music on the album that finally answered every dare he ever made for himself.

The onstage clowning, iconic poses and smooches between these two men told the story of the world (both hardscrabble and mythical) Springsteen set out to describe and remake. His concerts have always been about building a community as much as escaping to fantasy. They were Han Solo and Chewbacca. Scorsese and Deniro. Paul Bunyan and Babe the Blue Ox.

As I watched a 1978 concert tonight, Clarence twirled in his white suit with a nimbleness he hasn't displayed in many years. Each note, strong and sustained, carried the band higher and higher. He blasted away at the foot of Roy's piano, as Bruce stood on top with his guitar aloft and wailing to the gods.

No, the world will not see such joy again. We're the lucky ones who got to see it even once.

How Patriots Burn Their Flags

2011-06-14T20:00:00.002-04:00

Happy Flag Day.

Gladly Left Behind

2011-05-20T01:18:00.002-04:00

Quick question: When Saturday passes without The Rapture, does that mean we can legally commit all these nutbags to a mental health facility until the end of their days?

To Which It Stands

2011-05-17T11:24:00.005-04:00

Call me unpatriotic, but how many time must I say the Pledge of Allegiance?

I recited it every day in kindergarten through high school. Give or take a few dozen sick days and excused family vacation days, that's something like 2,300 times.

Since I've been a reporter, I've attended a hundred or more public meetings, almost all of which start with a board of education member or some politician leading those assembled in the pledge.

I appreciate the sentiment. I love my country. I really do.

But let's break this down for a second here. Shouldn't once be enough? I mean, it's a pledge. Shouldn't the flag take me at my word? I don't recall ever recanting my pledge or pledging some other flag (though I've always been partial to the Nepalese flag).

And maybe I wasn't exactly aware enough at the age of 5, blinding reciting some words because Mrs. McPhillips said so. But somewhere along the line, I understood the point of the exercise. Does everyone else?

What value is a pledge if it needs to be restated ever day or every few weeks? If I pledge to take out the garbage, my wife can rest easy knowing the garbage will be taken out. And that pledge doesn't even involve a bunch of frilly clauses and the invocation of God. You'd think the flag would have the same faith in me. After all, I put my hand over my heart and everything.

I'm just saying. Is all.

Stupid needy flag.

On Ice

2011-05-06T10:29:00.002-04:00

Funny how a jingle from the 80s appears in my head from out of nowhere. Thanks to Youtube, it'll be in yours as well. Thanks, Riunite!

And don't think you can't have it on ice with fried chicken. 'Cuz you can! Goes so nice!

May The Fourth Be With You

2011-05-04T21:17:00.003-04:00

Apparently today is Star Wars Day. Go figure.

Here's something to help celebrate the occasion.

The 10-Year War

2011-05-02T00:24:00.006-04:00

It never occurred to me I might cry tears of joy at news someone was killed. I guess there's a first time for everything.

And yet, there's more here. There's relief tinged with the knowledge this likely changes little. There's admiration and deep gratitude for our military and intelligence personnel. There's sadness and anger and fear and confusion and everything else that bubbles up whenever I let myself return to 9/11.

This is a solemn and important moment. Thanks to Twitter, it's also been more than a little hilarious. Funny people bonding over their joy and remembered pain caused by one dead terrorist leader. The first people to assemble outside the White House gates sang "We Are the Champions" before diving into a rowdy rendition of the national anthem. This is a country worth fighting for.

Double Down

2011-04-27T19:43:00.004-04:00

On this day of royally wedded bliss, my mind wanders to thoughts of inbreeding. But also true love. And the commitment cemented by two willing (so I surmise) adults with good skin and many years of smiling and waving in their future.

I'm also reminded of some advice I once gave a friend who, like many men, could not decide if the one he was with was the one he should always be with. A difficult question fraught with complications.

The idea there is one person in the world we are destined to marry is a fantasy created by romance novels and Hollywood. Like an all-powerful diety in the sky judging us while creating fuzzy bunnies and causing earthquakes and tsunamis, it's nice but a little dangerous to believe in.

I'm as happy as I've ever been. I owe the vast majority of that happiness to my wife. We're as suitable for each other as I could imagine.

And yet there are 6.8 billion people in the world, 311 million in the United States. I took a job in New Jersey only because the one I wanted in Florida didn't come through in time. The girl I married just happened to work there. Fate? Bullshit. Just some good luck. But it's foolish to think if I didn't take that job that I couldn't have moved to Florida or Ohio or Mississippi (well, maybe not Mississippi) and found someone else suitable to marry. Or maybe I would have had to move around a little more before finding someone. Or maybe something else would have happened to lead me to shun marriage. Or to want to wait longer. Or to (I hope not) settle earlier for the wrong person.

Life does what life does. You can't really second-guess decisions while in the middle of making them. And by the time you know the right answer, years have past and there is no going back.

We only get one life. It would be great if I could spend one of them as a newspaper reporter married to a girl from Chicago and another as a touring musician married to the road and another as an organic farmer living off the land with five dogs and a pig. If we're lucky, we might be able to have two or three careers (though usually only excel at one).

Marriage is a little different. People grow old and grow apart. People die early. Some people aren't meant to marry. Men in particular, who seem hard-wired for a different template. I suppose living in a city exacerbates the problem, as you are surrounded by an abundance of possibilities.

It's like Blackjack. Many good relationships at first are like getting dealt 16 against a dealer showing a 7. Sure, you are supposed to hit, but that's a risk. And odds are you're going to bust before you even get to see his hand. But when you're young, you get more hands to play. So it's not necessarily a tragedy if you lose what you've got for the promise of something better. (Of course, in this analogy, you are tossing your hand away the second you decide to see another card. Very hard to keep what you've got while hitting on someone else, trying to reach that perfect hand).

Or maybe you've got something going that's more like 12 against a dealer showing a 4. Some risks are worth more than others. It depends on your mindset. If you like freedom, play it loose. But I think the point is that while you can almost always risk losing something solid for the hope of something better, at some point we all get tired of playing the game. And we settle.

This is a vexed word. Because while settling down -- in a relationship, in a shared home, in a more stable life -- we are also fundamentally settling on the person we're with. Some settle for someone less ideal than they should. This is for others to judge, more than the guy in question. But we ALL settle. There's something less than perfect about every girl on the planet. No matter who we are talking about. Jessica Alba, Angelina Jolie, Halle Berry, Margaret Thatcher, Golda Meier, Scarlett Johansson, Maya Angelou, Janine Garofalo, Condoleeza Rice -- whoever -- there is someone who is sick of fucking her. And sick of talking to her. Sick of something about her. But eventually, if they're lucky, someone will settle on her, too.

(The same applies to guys, of course. Likely more so. Guys are scum.)

I'm no one to offer advice or insight. But I suppose what I want to say is that happiness should not be treated lightly. If you don't have it, get it. If you've got it, keep it going. And have faith that -- because you are a kind and thoughtful person -- everything will work out in the end. And that there really is no end, except the very last one, after which nothing really matters anyway.

Music, Music Everywhere and Not a Drop to Drink

2011-04-27T19:22:00.004-04:00

This Bill Wyman piece from Slate last week struck a nerve.

Wyman (no, not that one) discusses the sheer abundance of music currently available on torrent sites, hubs and other nether-regions of the internet. And he muses on the current predicament of latter-day rock snob collectors who no longer hold a monopoly on rare recordings. These days, rarity is more of a state of mind. Almost nothing is difficult to obtain with some searching, the right software and enough cheap storage.

Ever since I got my first cable modem eight years ago, I've been feeding a bottomless habit for bootlegs. There are guys with every single Dead show or every recording from Neil Young's 1976 tour. All for the taking with a click.

In the days I discovered my musical tastes as a teenager, life was different. I can remember scrambling for blank tapes after coming across someone with a decent low-generation collection and painstakingly dubbing them at 2x speed and then -- before I got a cable modem and a computer with a burner -- paying some asshole $75 for a 3 CD Springsteen show.

(The sites I frequent follow strict rules about what people share and how they share it. You can't post anything commercially available. Only stuff that the artists haven't officially released, so you aren't really taking money out of their pockets. And selling stuff that you should be sharing is complete crap. The whole idea is to let the free music flow like water.)

Now, I don't really want it all. Like Wyman writes, Lester Bangs' fantasy of having the worlds' music stacked in his basement makes little sense in 2011. But I do want the best of it all. Complete with artwork and CD cases, which leaves my wife wondering forlornly if every wall of our home will eventually be covered with shelves for music and DVDs. Perhaps.

I can't help myself. Just last year has produced stuff like: pristine Elvis Costello and U2 shows, both evenings of Eric Clapton's 1973 Rainbow Concerts with Pete Townsend, Ronnie Wood and Steve Winwood, an embarrassment of Springsteen material from his earliest forays with Child and Steel Mill to the sick full-album shows that finished up the last tour, Fleetwood Mac from the Rumours tour, Warren Zevon all over the place, Elton John solo and drunk but in full command in Scotland in 1973, Little Feat, REM, The Beatles acoustic demos for the White Album, lots of Lou Reed, even more Van Morrison, just about every worthwhile recording by The Band (including their complete set at Woodstock), Dylan from the earliest folk scene solo gigs to his fervent born-again phase (a lot more interesting than I ever thought it would be) to his grizzled musical rebirth in the late 90s), The Clash, Elvis, Wilco, and so much more I can't remember off the top of my head.

So yeah. Music life is good. And our next place might need a bigger basement.

Beautiful But Not Damaged

2011-04-23T18:33:00.002-04:00

Tina Fey's prayer for a daughter. Funny and touching and true.

The Regal Beagle

2011-04-19T21:16:00.004-04:00

An excellent profile of Andrew Sullivan, the world's best blogger. Better than me, even. Really. Hard to believe, but true.

Blow Job

2011-04-19T21:03:00.003-04:00

Is there a more environmentally unfriendly device than a leaf blower?

Probably. Cars and cows come to mind (methane from cow and pig farts trap heat in the atmosphere more than carbon dioxide). But the idea of a dude hauling a backpack full of gasoline just to clean up the yard seems...unnecessary.

Don't get me wrong. Some jobs are too big for a rake. And the leaves and dead branches have to go somewhere or they'll clog our catch basins and whatnot. But walking the dog this morning, I passed a trio of dudes blowing all the winter remnants from yards, across the road to the woods. And then we passed an idling oil truck as the driver filled up someone's home tank with heating oil. Somewhere (I imagine) a cow farted. And I thought to myself: This just seems unsustainable.

I mean, if everyone in China and India continues to want their own cars and hamburgers and steak dinners, something has to give.

Anyway, that's what was on my mind this morning. I'm sure Donald Trump has it all figured out. Though the stuff that comes out of his mouth tends to be even more noxious than pig farts.

Where Can I Find A Woman Like That?

2011-04-09T13:33:00.002-04:00

So I understand that Rick Springfield wishes he had Jessie's girl. But I don't know. Maybe it was the feathered hair or the skinny ties. But don't you also get the sense that he's got an unusual interest in Jessie himself? Just asking.

Big Time BS

2011-04-03T21:59:00.007-04:00

So we're watching the Kids Choice Awards Saturday night with my 5-year-old niece and there's a popular boy band up for an award. Perhaps you have young children and know about this. But the band is called Big Time Rush.

Now I know kids today have no awareness of New Kids on The Block, much less the legendary Canadian prog-rock band Rush. But shouldn't someone in the corporate music and television world have told the corporate music and television moguls responsible for these pansies that they were co-opting the name a great and important music act?

I mean, really. Big Time Rush? You can't just take a band's name and tack on "Big Time" and then go about your business like this other, much better, band does not exist. Why not just name your boy band Big Time Beatles? Or Big Time Led Zeppelin. Shit, it would be just as bad if you chose Big Time Katrina and The Waves. Is all I'm saying.

Big Time Rush. Please. Next thing you know, they'll start wearing space-age kimonos.

Stock Shock

2011-03-30T19:48:00.002-04:00

For no reason, here are 60 completely unusable stock photos.

Poor You

2011-03-29T22:40:00.003-04:00

Glenn Greenwald dissects the self-pity of billionaires decrying Obamanomics.

I'm not sure I'll every understand why there hasn't been a populist uprising against these phonies.

Metal On Metal On Metal (On Metal)

2011-03-28T23:18:00.004-04:00

I picked up this blog again because of all the crap going on the world. Earthquake-tsunami-nuclear meltdown crap. Wars and stuff. A seemingly intractable political divide here at home. The growing chasm between the super-rich and the rest of us. The complete abandonment of the poor.

But fuck all that. Watch "Anvil! The Story of Anvil." Appreciate what you've got and what you might not be destined to get.

The story of a long-suffering Canadian metal band, "Anvil" plays like a cross between "Metallica: Some Kind of Monster" and "Spinal Tap." In fact, the documentary has enough peculiar "Tap" references that some reviewers even thought it could be an elaborate hoax. A record producer has gain dials that go to 11. The band visits Stonehenge. The drummer's name is Robb Reiner (with the extra "b").

But this is the kind of stuff that's too strange to be fiction. And there's as much hilarity as heart-rending honesty and inspiration. It's the story of a pair of talented (though I think their music is god-awful, at least it takes some talent to play) Jews from Toronto who love playing their crap music, love their families and love each other. Which leads to all the tension in a career that generates a parade of critical acclaim and plaudits from guys like Lars Ulrich and Slash but nothing to show for it beyond hapless European tours that offer nothing but a poorly-paying vacation from their regular non-musical jobs.

This movie has it all. Hair. Fighting. A surprising lack of drugs. And Steve "Lips" Kudlow plays his guitar with a vibrator.

"Anvil": The feel-good movie of a feel-bad year.

Fly Like A Beagle

2011-03-25T00:18:00.001-04:00

Nothing like a dog almost too smart for his own good.

Married?

2011-03-23T19:37:00.004-04:00

For some reason I've never gotten around to seeing any of Elizabeth Taylor's films. One of several glaring gaps in my film knowledge.

So I can't really praise her acting. And I didn't know her, though by all accounts she was a loving person loved by friends and family. Her charity work certainly deserves plenty of plaudits.

And yet the first thing that sprung to mind when I heard of her death today is her cameo as the voice of Maggie Simpson. And this crass entertainment news magazine video when asked about possibly marrying for the ninth time. Rest in peace, Liz. We all howl at the heavens tonight.

While I Was Away

2011-03-23T01:34:00.004-04:00

Hm. It appears I may have missed some stuff this past year. Certainly nothing going on lately I can think of...

Nobody Wins Unless Everyone Wins

2011-03-23T01:04:00.006-04:00

"There's something really dangerous happening to us out there. We're slowly getting split up into two different Americas. Things are getting taken away from people that need them and given to people that don't need them, and there's a promise getting broken. In the beginning, the idea was that we all live here a little bit like a family, where the strong can help the weak ones, the rich can help the poor ones. I don't think the American dream was that everybody was going to make it or that everybody was going to make a billion dollars. But it was that everybody was going to have an opportunity and the chance to live a life with some decency and some dignity and a chance for some self respect."

That was Bruce Springsteen, speaking from a stage in Pittsburgh in 1984. Not much has changed. Things got better and then got worse.

Here's a New York Times discussion about how people think (or don't) about the wealth disparity. I find the comments particularly interesting. People get so self-righteous about the working poor.

To me, you don't have to be a bleeding heart to think it's bad that so few people hold so much of the nation's money (and its power and influence and likely an out-sized proportion of its diamond-encrusted tweezers). I mean, doesn't it make sense that a better distribution of wealth would make rich people's fortunes more secure? Poverty and a growing animus toward the filthy rich creates crime, violence and some really horrible television shows. A more equitable society is a more stable society. People with more money have more to lose. Maybe they should pay more for that security? For the same reason it costs more to insure a $1 million house than one worth $50,000.

So how about it, all you shrugging Atlases. Maybe if you see yourself as part of the solution for a better functioning society, you can rest a little easier knowing a spiteful stable boy won't try to jam a Waterford candlestick up your Brazilian Sport Horse's ass.

Saints Freeze Hell Over

2010-02-08T09:27:00.003-05:00

It's hard not to be warmed by last night's Saints victory in the Super Bowl. It was a terrific game. (We almost had that elusive overtime yet again.) Drew Brees is a great player and seemingly an even greater person. The city of New Orleans and the entire gulf region deserve this moment.

But when all the hoopla dies down (in New Orleans, that will be sometime in late summer, perhaps), all I can think of is this: The Jets will never win one of these.

Watching the Saints, here you have a team that had won two playoff games in 42 years before this year. The Jets have won 10 and appeared more often. Both teams have broken hearts and been laughingstocks.

But the Saints rose to the occasion and beat a Colts team the Jets could barely touch. They held the Colts to 7 points after the first quarter. They took advantage of a scaredy-cat timidity with the Colts' decision to run three times after a momentum-shifting goal-line stand at the end of the first half. The Saints favored boldness again with their suprise onside kick to start the third quarter. And for the first time in recent memory, Peyton Manning threw a late interception to lose a game.

Drew Brees cemented himself as an elite quarterback, winning the biggest game of his life without much of a running game. He outplayed the best quarterback I've ever seen play on the game's biggest stage.

One day that might be Mark Sanchez. But if that's the case, he'll probably be 32 years old and playing for the fucking Bills.

Three Sundays

2010-01-20T23:39:00.006-05:00

My brother sent me the following quotes in an email today:

1. "Teams that have the top-ranked defense and running game in the NFL almost always enjoy postseason success. Since the NFL merger in 1970, of the seven teams that have led the league in both categories, two won the Super Bowl and three made it to the conference championship game." - Mark Cannizaro, NY Post

2. "This year's Colts are not a powerhouse, despite starting the season 14-0 before tossing in the towel, forfeiting to the Jets and Bills and fastforwarding to playoff preparation. In weeks seven through 10, they beat the 49ers, Texans, Patriots and Ravens by a combined 10 points. They won seven games with fourth-quarter comebacks, the most since the merger. It proves they are resilient. And vulnerable." - Gary Myers, NY Daily News

3. "Manning is the best quarterback in the league, but he is only 8-8 in the playoffs. For all his numbers and terrific seasons, this is his 12th year and he has won just one Super Bowl and been to just one Super Bowl. He has not been nearly as good in the playoffs as he has been in the regular season." - Gary Myers, NY Daily News

4. "The Colts are one dimensional: They were dead last running the ball. Wayne will enter Revis Island and never be heard from again Sunday. Then it's up to the rest of the secondary and the linebackers to control Dallas Clark, Austin Collie and Pierre Garcon. The Colts' leading rusher is Joseph Addai with only 828 yards." - Gary Myers, NY Daily News

5. "One edge for the Jets: The Colts' new home at Lucas Oil Field is not as noisy as the old RCA Dome." - Gary Myers, NY Daily News

6. "Forty-one years ago, another Colts team faced the Jets as a prohibitive double-digit favorite. That was Super Bowl III, the Joe Namath "guarantee," the game that essentially forced the NFL-AFL merger. Forty-one years ago, nobody in Baltimore and almost nobody in America thought the upstart Jets had a chance. Well, they have a chance Sunday. They absolutely have a chance." - Bob Kravitz, Indianapolis Star

He's abandoned a lifetime of hard lessons in Jets history to embrace Rex Ryan's steroidal optimism. While I know the Jets have a chance on Sunday, I'm forever haunted by the previous two AFC Championship games I've seen the Jets play in my life. The column below, published on the eve of the first home game in the doomed Eric Mangini Era, still stands as a solid assessment of my feelings about the green and white.

In three Sundays, the Jets might be playing in the Super Bowl. But this team doesn't strike me as ready for greatness just yet. This whole postseason has been a giddy bonus. So I'm bracing for the third Sunday in my collection of haunting Jets moments when everything almost comes together.

When you're a Jet you're a Jet all the way

9/16/2006

I am a Jets fan. In a dark and dangerous world, there are certainly worse things to be. Tom Arnold, for one.

But as another season starts -- teasing only the foolish with a pubescent coaching staff and a win against the feeble Tennessee Titans -- now is as good a time as any to examine the masochistic joys of living under a green and white cloud with a lining black as soot.

I've been going to Jets games since I was 4 years old and mostly interested in the pretzels and ice cream served at Shea Stadium. Those were the days. A jumbo pretzel hardly ever disappointed like the team on the field.

My dad would grease the ticket guy with $1, and I'd sit on his lap (my dad, not the ticket guy). As I grew older, I learned to love the Jets despite their regular disappointments. I imagine this is how Paris Hilton's parents feel about their daughter.

Oh, there were many brilliant, shining moments. I saw the 51-45 aerial shootout against Miami in 1986. The raucous home divisional playoff win against Jacksonville in 1998. The fourth quarter 23-point ""Miracle at the Meadowlands'' comeback in 2000. I rooted for the worthy Wesley Walker, Al Toon, Mickey Shuler, Lance Mehl, Joe Klecko, Freeman McNeil and Wayne Chrebet.

But then I witnessed a potential division lead shot through the heart with a Dan Marino fake spike. Watched as Dennis Byrd lay temporarily paralyzed. Caught Joe Walton picking his nose on TV and listened as Richie Kotite treated his team of losers like gentlemen. Saw Mark Gastineau commit a personal foul against Cleveland in a 1986 divisional playoff game on fourth and 26 that allowed Cleveland to tie the game and win in double overtime. Squirmed through the multiple concussions and premature retirement of our most prolific receiver. Twice. Sat motionless watching the 1982 AFC Championship Game as A.J. Duhe trucked his way through the Miami mud toward the endzone. Twice. In 1998, I saw a 10-point lead crumble just 30 minutes and 30 years from another shot at a Super Bowl. And I saw the best coach we would ever have skip town on his first day to build a dynasty in New England.

In my 27 or so years as a sentient fan, the Jets starting quarterbacks have included the likes of Bubby Brister, Browning Nagle, Glenn Foley, Tony Eason, Rick Mirer, Ray Lucas and Quincy Carter. The only thing these guys should have been starting was a list of alternate career choices. And the Jets choices on draft day are most remembered for the boos they generated among the New York crowd.

It says something about Jets fans that we have embraced ""Gang Green'' as our team nickname. Because there's nothing better to describe the squad than the bacterial decay of body tissue requiring amputation.

But I'll still be out there tomorrow with my dad and brother, my friends and girlfriend, grilling meats and tossing a ball in anticipation of anything to cheer about. There is something hopelessly hopeful and unintentionally cruel about cursing your children with the Jets in a town that demands winners. But I've never blamed my dad. When I was born, Joe Namath still glowed from his league-shaking Super Bowl III victory and wobbled his way through games on crippled knees. Traces of magic could shoot from his arm.

My brother should know better. He brought his 8-month-old daughter to a preseason tailgate outfitted in a pink Jets shirt and sucking on a Jets pacifier. The looming tragedy of this young life made me want to call Child Protective Services.

Luckily she's way too young at the moment to comprehend complex shapes and actions, much less the certain disaster of another Jets season. So until she's sitting on her dad's lap in the new Meadowlands stadium, I'm glad she's clueless and happy sucking on that pacifier.

There's just too much of that kind of thing on the field.

We already work around the clock!

2010-01-20T01:23:00.005-05:00

As a life-long sad-sack Jets fan, I can hardly contain my conflicted emotions over this coming Sunday's AFC Championship Game.

I mean, I've been down this road before with what I at least perceived to be better teams -- in 1982 and 1998. Anything can happen, I suppose. But in the NFL playoffs, the better team usually wins. The Jets might have been better than the Bengals. We've got a great defense, but I think overall, the Jets only played better than a bumbling Chargers team. And they'll need to do everything right and catch similar breaks to beat the Colts.

But whatever happens, however horribly it unfolds, I think we can all agree on this: After this weekend, CBS MUST stop showing the commercials for that fucking pathetic Harrison Ford-Brendan Frasier flick. Right? Pretty please?

Merry Christmas

2009-12-25T06:23:00.000-05:00

And Happy New Year!

T.V. Gaga

2009-12-14T22:37:00.003-05:00

OK. It's taken a few months here. The honeymoon is over. Time to get something off my mind. And yeah, maybe it wouldn't hurt to move the freeze frame of my wife's boobies a little further down the page.

But what's on my mind, sadly, is Barbara Walters' 10 Most Fascinating People of 2009. God help me.

No one respectable has ever bothered to accuse Barbara of breaking the integrity bank when it comes to her celebrity interviews, specials, involvement with "The View," or anything since she interviewed the Shah of Iran in 1979. The woman really is a shameless panderer. Nothing wrong with that, I suppose.

But watching her show last weekend out of pure boredom, I could hardly believe her definition of "fascinating" could be reconciled with my understanding of the English language. I mean, a turd baking on a hot stretch of highway can be fascinating. The pain from a kidney stone attack -- of which I've had five -- while excrutiating, tear-inducing and homicide-impulse-inducing, could also be described as fascinating.

But look at this list:

Michelle Obama, Lady Gaga, Glenn Beck, Tyler Perry, Kate Gosselin, Adam Lambert, Sarah Palin, Brett Favre, Jenny Sanford, Michael Jackson’s three children.

Holy bucket of ass hairs.

I'm trying here. It's not easy. But I'm trying hard to come up with a list of people who might have aggravated a larger quantity of the living shit out of me in 2009. I mean, Joe Lieberman took most of the year off before recently resurrecting his campaign as my state's biggest, most rancid human-shaped enema.

But these others? Other than Michelle Obama, and the blameless Jenny Sanford and the Jackson kids, this is a list of horrible, horrible, pathetic jackasses. And listen, I'm going on the record to say I'm fascinated by the orange self-proclaimed guidos of "Jersey Shore" and the human wrecks of the Dr. Drew rehab shows.

Kate Gosselin is a harpy fame whore whose loathsome qualities can only be surpassed, sadly and amazingly, by her doucherific ex-husband.

Adam Lambert looks like Dracula in drag and sings like one of those head phone hearing-test beeps at the DMV.

I'm not in any position to judge, so I'll let Spike Lee filet Tyler Perry as basically the manager of a modern day minstrel show.

I'm glad that until about two months ago, I'd never even heard of Lady Gaga. Now that I've seen her, she makes me want to gaga all over the floor.

Glenn Beck is Rush Limbaugh and Sean Hannity's retarded kid brother. Only more unhinged and possibly more likely to insight the kind of violence his type always seem to insight during times of economic hardship.

Sarah Palin is a know-nothing celeb-u-tante masquerading as a deep thinking realist. She quit her elected office to make a fortune. More power to her. But the only thing fascinating is how anyone could possibly continue to take her seriously.

Which brings me to Brett Fucking Favre. If he had spent the rest of his most recent "retirement" on his Mississippi lawn tractor, I would have no feelings about him whatsoever. Maybe he could have retained a handful of the fond feelings I had for him when he was the plucky, infectious winner in Green Bay. But after his endless public soap opera over the first retirement/comeback, it was hard enough to root for him playing for my own team. After the Jets and his right arm imploded last year, I was glad to be rid of him. His ego could hardly fit in the new stadium.

Now he's fucking 11-2. Looking better than ever on a team with Adrian Peterson. If he wins the Super Bowl the only thing more fascinating might be whom I might kill as a result of my homicidal rage.

Do you think Kate Gosselin would come to my Super Bowl party?

Somebody's Getting Married

2009-11-15T02:02:00.002-05:00

A teaser for the full-length wedding video I'm almost finished cutting...

Real World

2009-09-18T21:40:00.001-04:00

By Bruce Springsteen

Mister Trouble come walkin' this way
Year gone by feels like one long day
But I'm alive and I'm feelin' all right
Well I run that hard road outta heartbreak city
Built a roadside carnival out of hurt and self-pity
It was all wrong well now I'm moving on

Ain't no church bells ringing
Ain't no flags unfurled
It's just me and you and the love we're bringing
Into the real world
Into the real world

I built a shrine in my heart it wasn't pretty to see
Made out of fool's gold memory and tears cried
Now I'm headin' over the rise
I'm searchin' for one clear moment of love and truth
I still got a little faith
But what I need is some proof tonight
I'm lookin' for it in your eyes

Ain't no church bells ringing
Ain't no flags unfurled
Just me and you and the faith we're bringing
Into the real world
Into the real world

Well tonight I just wanna shout
I feel my soul waist deep and sinkin'
Into this black river of doubt
I just wanna rise and walk along the riverside
And when the morning comes baby I don't wanna hide
I'll stand right at your side with my arms open wide

I wanna find some answers I wanna ask for some help
I'm tired of running scared
Baby let's get our bags packed
We'll take it here to hell and heaven and back
And if love is hopeless hopeless at best
Come on put on your party dress it's ours tonight
And we're goin' with the tumblin' dice

Ain't no church bells ringing
Ain't no flags unfurled
It's just me and you and the hope we're bringing
Into the real world
Well into the real world
Oh into the real world

I Do

2009-09-18T21:37:00.004-04:00

As read Aug. 30, 2009:

I sat down to write these vows last October. Congress had just passed a $700 billion Wall Street bailout, and as I typed, the Dow Jones sunk 800 points. We were in the home stretch of a presidential campaign getting nastier by the second. Wars raged and newspapers vanished. The future seemed as cloudy and confused as ever.

And here we are today. I had no way of knowing what the world would look like. I just knew I wanted to look at it with you.

We got engaged 563 days ago. It feels like yesterday. I knew then as I know now that marriage is not some simple ceremony to cement our commitment and celebrate our love. We have lived these 563 days much like we will live every day afterward. Getting married is an expression of commitment, yes. But it is also the only time in my entire life you’ll ever likely see me express something else: faith.

Not faith in a supreme being or politicians or the fortunes of a football team. But simple, pure, unending faith in you. Faith in us.

I vow to follow all the usual rules of marriage. I promise to love you, protect you, honor you, hear you, make you laugh and embrace the times you must laugh at me.

I also promise to pronounce your name properly and try my best to keep the popcorn off the top shelf where you can’t reach it.

But above all, I vow to never lose faith in the bond that has grown between us. To respect its strength and sanctity.

I vow to be the best husband I can be. To cultivate hope, soften pain, ease fears, and build with you a home immune from the insanity of this world. I vow to never leave your side as we walk forward from here to forever.

Sort of social. Demented and sad, but social.

2009-08-08T00:15:00.004-04:00

It's a cliche, but John Hughes sort of defined high school existence for a generation of kids who dreamed of getting out of there even before they got there. Celebrate the guy who gave the world Farmer Ted.

And for some reason, among the hoards of tribute videos, I have a soft spot for this mother dragooning her children into performing in her reenactment of a movie they're too young to see.

Holy Matrimony!

2009-07-23T23:44:00.003-04:00

No, I don't think we'll be doing anything like this next month. But you've gotta give these guys credit for the right attitude and effort. And for having at least three members of the wedding party who look like Seth Rogen.

Summing Up

2009-07-04T23:08:00.003-04:00

Ed McMahon (old and sick), Farrah Fawcett (middle aged and cancerous), Michael Jackson (middle aged, generally weird and addicted) and now Steve McNnair (young, fit and possibly unlucky in love).

None of this has anything to do with anything else. It just seems helpful at times to take stock of what is happening in the world.

And by that, I mean a world in which Iran attempts to stifle a populist revolt against Islamist fascism, North Korea threatens to fire missiles at Hawaii, and U.S. governors are Terminators issuing IOUs for a bankrupt state, beauty pageant (and vice presidential) runners-up quitting so as not to act like a quitter, and philanderers embroiled in Argentinian romances with soul mates.

There's a show on TV in which fat people dance in whore attire and another in which someone who calls himself a doctor eats tainted vegetables to produce parasitic worms from his poo.

Gays are getting married, a black guy is in the White House and I've had a poison ivy rash on my leg for almost two months now. Interesting times, indeed.

But when did Mad Magazine start scripting our current events?

The Kid Is Not My Son

2009-06-26T12:15:00.004-04:00

More than one person has remarked to me since yesterday: What's the big deal about Michael Jackson?

A fair question. He has been an irrelevant freak for so long, it's hard to recall what was so special about him in the first place. My bride-to-be had never even seen the videos for "Thriller" or "Beat It" until I showed them to her a few months back on YouTube.

Check out his legendary performance from the Motown 25th anniversary special. Yes, there was a time when these moves were fresh and unique. Yes, there was a time when he looked mostly human even if his talent made him appear from another world. Yes, he can hold a room entranced even while lip-syncing. When he moonwalks toward the end, part of the audience appears to spit out their eyeballs.

But even if you're not taken in by his voice, his dance moves or his undeniable stage presence, the numbers don't lie. The man reached a popularity untouched by anyone since Elvis and The Beatles.

I was never really a huge Jackson fan. I can recall someone at camp playing the "Thriller" album over and over again in the summer of 1983. Granted, I didn't have much taste in music then, but it didn't do anything for me. And there was even a point in 1984 when I was watching a Prince video on MTV (remember when they played videos?) and couldn't understand why Michael Jackson was so hairy.

And he was always so weird. The chimp, Elizabeth Taylor, the hyperbaric chamber, Neverland, the glove, the gay-military outfits, the Elephant Man's bones, Lisa Marie, the accusations of pedophilia, the high-pitched girly voice, the seeming desire to become white, the plastic surgury that eventually lopped off his nose.

At the heart of it appeared to be an arrested development triggered by an abusive taskmaster of a father who made his children into superstars only to watch them go supernova and burst into pieces. Andrew Sullivan has a pyschological/cultural take as worthy as any.

Michael Jackson was an international sensation, as recognized around the world as the NY Yankees' logo, McDonald's or -- once upon a time -- Muhammad Ali. On a list of the most prominent world figures whose death might spark as much interest, I can think of only Ali, the Pope (though perhaps not the current one), Obama and Paul McCartney. Frank Sinatra and Johnny Carson were pretty big, but mostly in the U.S.

But the question of why should we care is different from why we should take note.

We should not care as though we have lost a loved one. Michael Jackson was a celebrity entertainer, not our parent or child. But in the way our culture created him, chewed him up and spat him out, perhaps he's a symbol for a sick world. It appears Jackson wanted to remain a child. I'm not exusing him for the choices he made in his own life. And I ain't saying it's my responsibility, but someone really should take better care of such people.

Phishing Down By The River

2009-06-12T00:29:00.005-04:00

Haven't blogged in a while. Don't suppose this counts for much, but I just wanted to reassert my love for YouTube. Which provides for 19 quality minutes such as this:

State of The State

2009-05-31T14:21:00.003-04:00

By TPerl

In case you missed it, MTV is finally allowing The State DVD to be released.

July 14th.

You may now commence ball-dipping.

A Disgrace To The Name

2009-05-17T23:07:00.003-04:00

By Arielle

James Harrison - you know, the 242-pounder who somehow managed to trudge a slow 100 yards to score a touchdown in the Super Bowl before collapsing - is skipping the Steelers' White House visit this week.

Prior obligation? Loyalty to McCain? On the no-fly list and concerned about the rising price of gas?

Nah.

He just thinks the president doesn't want to see him bad enough.

"This is how I feel - if you want to see the Pittsburgh Steelers, invite us when we don't win the Super Bowl. As far as I'm concerned, he [Obama] would've invited Arizona if they had won," Harrison told a Pittsburgh TV station.

This is probably too dumb to even bother blogging about. But just for kicks...

Harrison seems to be under the impression that the president customarily invites his favorite football team to the White House. Or that Barack Obama and his predecessors (Harrison also skipped the team's 2006 meeting with George W. Bush) had nothing better to do than shuffle through their NFL trading cards to decide which spandex-clad giant they'd most like to hang out with in the rose garden, then command that it be so. Or that Obama invited the Steelers for any substantive reason besides they fact that they. won. the. Super. Bowl.

Seriously. On Harrison's logic, Nicolas Sarkozy should reject his next White House invitation on the grounds that, had Segolene Royal won the election, Obama would be inviting her instead.

But in case you were worried that Obama would be missing out because of this non-snub, Harrison's pre-Super Bowl brush with fame occurred after he was arrested for allegedly slapping his girlfriend during an argument about their son's baptism. The charges were later dropped after he took an anger management class.

Truly. The loss will be Barack's.

Favre Christ's Sake

2009-04-30T19:56:00.004-04:00

Quick thoughts on the reincarnated speculation Brett Favre will once again un-retire and try to play football.

When Favre played for the Packers, I always rooted for him. Right up to the very last interception he threw against the Giants.

When Favre played for the Jets, I rooted for him. But only because, as a Jets fan, I had to. (See: Rick Mirer, Bubby Brister, Ray Lucas, Frank Reich, Browning Nagle, Neil O'Donnel, etc.)

If Favre comes back to play for the Vikings or some other team, I will root against him. With rabid glee.

And if he stays retired, struggling with the finality of his decision while mowing his Mississippi lawn with a tractor, I swear to God, I will root for the weeds.

And Knowing Is Half The Battle

2009-04-28T00:51:00.003-04:00

For those of you who grew up watching G.I. Joe, here's a more mature take on the franchise from Adult Swim. People actually get shot. No convenient parachutes from exploding helicopters. And it still hits the nostalgia sweet spot. I don't know what to make of this summer's life-action movie, but this came out of nowhere and entertained me.

And enjoy the spoof public service announcements above. Pork chop sandwiches!

100 Ways To Procrastinate

2009-04-13T23:44:00.002-04:00

A compilation of "The 100 Most Iconic Internet Videos."

Go ahead. You know you have nothing to do today.

When Will The World End?

2009-04-10T23:56:00.004-04:00

I remember learning about the five Ws in elementary school. These were the question words. All of the world's answers lay just beyond their asking.

In our global, digitally connected society, that has never been more true.

Still, I never really think of asking Google direct questions. Mostly I use keywords. The idea of typing “Why does my ass hurt?” doesn't seem, to me, as productive or as elegant as simply typing “hemorrhoids” or “sex play riding crop injury.”

But all you need to do these days is type a word or two into the Google search box, and by perusing the automated suggestions you can get a pretty good idea of what's on people's minds.

Some are scientific: Why is the sky blue? What does my name mean?

Some are political: Who should I vote for? Where do I vote?

Some are paranoid: Where was Obama born? Why do men cheat?

(Be careful typing in something like “why do black.” At least if anyone is watching you. Or you have a sense of shame.)

And my favorites are philosophical, enigmatic, and – if you don't recognize the pop cultural significance of the phrase – absurd: Where the hell is Matt? Who moved my cheese? When will I grow up? Why do men have nipples? Why do dogs eat poop? Why did I get married? Where are they now?

Indeed. Questions for the ages.

--------------------------------------

Google's suggestions for life's burning questions in April 2009:

Who wants to be a millionaire

Who is

Who wants to be a millionaire online game

Who killed the electric car

Who is big poppa on real housewives of altanta

Who wants to be a millionaire game

Who is winning the election

Who should I vote for

Who moved my cheese

Who is my congressman

What not to wear

What is my ip

What does my name mean

What time is the inauguration

What is my ip address

What time is it

What i like about you

What is a good credit score

What is twitter

When i grow up lyrics

When is easter 2009

When is the superbowl

When does twighlight come out on dvd

When is the superbowl in 2009

When is superbowl 2009

When will i die

When is thanksgiving

When will i grow up

When will the world end

Where do I vote

Where does the vice president live

Where was Obama born

Where the wild things are

Where are they now

Where is Santa

Where do I go to vote

Where the hell is Matt

Where are you Christmas lyrics

Where am I registered to vote

Why is the sky blue

Why do cats purr

Why do men cheat

Why so serious

Why did the chicken cross the road

Why do men have nipples

Why lyrics

Why did i get married

Why do dogs eat poop

Why georgia lyrics

How to tie a tie

How i met your mother

How to kiss

How to get pregnant

How stuff works

How to cook a turkey

How to

How to lose weight

How to draw

How to knit

Raise The Bridge!

2009-04-08T11:41:00.003-04:00

Roger Ebert fucks with O'Reilly. A fun little take-down.

For some wonderful nostalgia of a dying newspaper, don't miss his latest blog post.

Dead Trees And Me

2009-03-30T17:06:00.004-04:00

I've had lots of jobs.

I've been a camp counselor -- only marginally interested in kids. I've stacked boxes, delivered Chinese food and calzones, shuffled paper and procrastinated at temp jobs at Lehman Brothers and Madison Square Garden. I've been a recruiter for an ethically challenged technology consulting firm and answered the phone for a crew of truck salesmen in Secaucus, N.J. I serviced the irrational whims of pharmaceutical marketing managers and tyrannical creative managers in a Manhattan advertising company. For 10 amazing months, I taught English to children in Thailand, suffering the occasional thumb up my butt.

Few of these offered any semblance of satisfaction. For most, my greatest skill lay in the ability to foster an illusion of competence. Just enough to get a promotion or avoid getting fired. Sometimes not enough of either.

My first job, when I was 17, was helping to stock the shelves before the opening of a Linens N Things in East Hanover, N.J. What sticks out in my memory was the Top 40 radio piped in through overhead speakers. It was the year Wayne's World came out, and at least once every two hours I was forced to listen to “Bohemian Rhapsody.” There's only so many times a man can hear “scatamoosh, scatamoosh, can you do the fandango?” before it induces a psychotic breakdown.

My favorite job was restaurant delivery. Just me in the car with some tunes, cruising all over town, eating for free, bullshitting with the kitchen guys and other drivers, using minimal brain power to make change and calculate who stiffed me on a tip. In a busy eight hours I could make more than $150 cash.

Teaching was also great but damn hard. And it's not like I had any real idea what I was doing or any way to measure my effectiveness. For one gig, I taught the same one-hour lesson to nine different classes of 40 or more students of varying ages and skill levels each week. It was exhausting and exhilarating.

When the semester ended, four of the nine classes presented me with gifts. The least impressive of which were flowers, a plastic glowing musical desk pen holder shaped like two roses, a small wooden replica of The Mayflower, and an ultra-shiny Thai silk tie. The most impressive of which were two letters declaring in broken English how much they love and will miss Teacher Rick, how without Teacher Rick they would have no English and how now they not scared so much foreigners.

At least two girls were visibly crying. There were grateful faces and much applause. I couldn’t help but smile. The feeling I had was impressive. Stirring. Foreign. A job well done.

Go figure.

But these were all jobs, not careers.

Which brings me to my least favorite topic of conversation and the one I'm most asked about these days: The Imminent Death of Newspapers.

In case you haven't noticed (perhaps you don't read newspapers), here are only the most recent developments: The Rocky Mountain News closed after 150 years, the Seattle Post-Intelligencer stopped printing its paper in favor of a skeleton online operation, the Tribune Co. has filed for bankruptcy, The Detroit Free Press now only delivers three days a week, The San Francisco Chronicle has threatened to close if it can't find a buyer (possibly making it the first major American city without a daily), the supposedly healthy New York Times has cut salaries by 5 percent after rounds of buyouts, and Gannett and the Newark Star-Ledger have imposed work furloughs.

That's just in the last few months.

The perfect storm of poor planning for a post-Internet world, crushing debt from stupid purchases, shrinking advertisement dollars, the global economic crisis and -- who knows, probably solar flares and cow farts -- have contributed to an unprecedented decline in a once booming and vital industry.

Add to this mess the public's inexplicably low opinion of journalism as something to be mistrusted (but free!) and you can see there doesn't seem to be a bright future here.

Solutions all appear to suffer from flaws. Internet micropayments? Nonprofit, government-subsidized status? A rise of independent bloggers suddenly blessed with the interest, know-how and funding to cover the drudgery of municipal meetings and conduct deep and possibly unfruitful investigations? All presented in an easy-to-read and easy-to-understand format? (If you have any doubt about the value behind a talented and principled group of reporters, look no further than Newsweek's seven-part, behind-the-scenes election post-mortem).

So, yeah. I'm wondering about the wisdom of choosing to join an industry akin to a rotting corpse sinking in a sea of shit. Kind of like what I imagine might be the ultimate feeling of whoever wins this year's "Rock of Love Bus with Brett Michaels."

But strangely, though the economy gets worse each day and newspapers fall all around us, though I have no backup plan nor the inclination to form one (yet) -- I'm happy. I've spent too many years working soul-sucking jobs or more-or-less unemployed in Manhattan to fritter away what might end up to be the last gasp of print journalism until the country wakes up sometime in 2021 and realizes that hey, we've got nothing to write snarky blogs about if we've got no fucking reporters reporting the fucking news.

My soon-to-be-bride writes for the longest continuously publishing daily newspaper in the country. It's also the currently bankrupt Tribune Co. property that has halved its newsroom in the last 13 months in a suicidal attempt to stay afloat.

I'm not sure how long this will last, and I'm not foolish enough to think it will. But I like what I do. Maybe its unrealistic to expect a career in which I can live a charmed life of the mind, following my curiosity wherever it leads -- basically learning for a living. Learning about people, institutions, and laws. About bio-diesel, land use law, antiques, soldiers, foster care, murdered pigs, lying politicians, gold, gays, cops and kooks.

The world is filled with people who work just to survive. People who dread their jobs or don't have the luxury to think about improving them. I'm fortunate in so many ways. I get to go places I'd have no other reason to visit and speak with people I'd have no other reason to meet.

Some day, I might get a letter from someone thanking me for a job well done (I won't hold my breath waiting). But this isn't really a job for me. It's a career and a life. And I'm not done with it yet. Even if I'm forced to take one of those job-jobs while waiting.

Deep Thought

2009-03-28T09:10:00.001-04:00

No matter what I do or how hard I try, I simply cannot keep up with the Kardashians.

The Universe Is a Hologram

2009-03-23T22:26:00.003-04:00

It's true. Maybe. I think so. (Actually, I'm not sure what I think or why I think it, which might be the whole point). Please read, and discuss.

These and other deep thoughts on my mind after reading 370 lengthy comments and counting on Roger Ebert's discussion of "Knowing," a film I didn't plan to see, but likely will now. ("Dark City" by the same director was a great, forgotten sci-fi flick from 1998)

And I Feel Fine

2009-02-17T23:50:00.002-05:00

Let's review.

The global economy is circling the drain with dramatic sloshing not seen since The Great Depression. Two satellites crashed in space adding to a cloud of debris that may one day prevent us from even safely launching anything into space. Two nuclear submarines collided in the Atlantic Ocean. Andy Dick appears to be one of the more well adjusted residents of VH-1's "Sober House." Peanut butter can kill you. And a Connecticut woman has her hands ripped off by a rampaging, Xanax-popping, wine swilling, plant-watering 14-year-old 200-pound domesticated chimpanzee.

Please draw your own conclusions.

Names

2009-02-07T09:28:00.003-05:00

I have unilaterally decided my unborn (and unconceived) children will be named Dunaci (rhymes with "moon in sky" and Laguaszjaton (rhymes with "he weighs a ton" with more of a Zhivago sound in the middle). That is all.

Thumbs Up

2009-01-22T23:13:00.000-05:00

Too cute.

President Obama

2009-01-20T12:19:00.002-05:00

Whew.

Brain Games Is Now Over

2009-01-19T23:15:00.003-05:00

Farewell, George W. Bush. Be careful not to trip over that criminally low bar you've set on you're way out.

Magnus, Thor and Jens

2009-01-16T00:13:00.002-05:00

A wondrous collection of Swedish dance band pics from the 70s, courtesy of T.B. Chief. Who are you to resist mustachioed men with hockey hair in matching sequined jump suits revealing their chests?

If you need help, use your SHIN to contact me. But not between 4 and 5; that's WILLY'S time!

2009-01-14T22:33:00.002-05:00

Long live the Internets. Find stuff you never knew existed at the click of a mouse. Such as this amazing documentary of the making of "The Shining" shot by Stanley Kubrik's then 17-year-old daughter.

It's strangely fascinating watching Jack order rice and noodles and brushing his teeth. But then you realize he's walking to the set for the climactic axe-through-the-bathroom-door scene.

All sorts of insights into Kubrik's filmmaking process, Shelly Duvall's apparent fragility and gutsy professionalism, and a touching and unexpected emotional reaction from Scatman Crothers.

Well worth 35 minutes.

Does Not Compute

2009-01-11T01:46:00.003-05:00

A few questions for the record:

Why would a robot do calesthenics?

What do robots have to do with football?

Why does this robot remind me of Ray Lewis?

Will somebody please make this fucking robot go away? They can get Al MacInnis to slap it in the head with that moronic glowing puck.

Playoffs?

2009-01-07T16:23:00.002-05:00

By TPerl

I really wish I could say I hate all those Coors Light ads, but this one always makes me crack up, to the point where I walk around the house shouting "Playoffs?" every 3 seconds. And then my kids start saying it, and it gets even funnier.

Anyway here's to the 2008 playoffs. Oops - sorry Bones. Hopefully this cheers you up anyway.

The Years Flash Before Our Eyes

2009-01-01T19:33:00.005-05:00

It occurred to me last night, as I rang in the new year on my couch with minimal fanfare, that 2009 will be the last year people will be able to wear eyeglasses shaped with the year's numbers. 2010 would be all lopsided, right?

So here's a requiem to all those enterprising novelty eyewhere tycoons out there. It was a solid 10 year run. See you all in the year 3000.

Bring on the PSLs

2008-12-29T07:51:00.001-05:00

That's Please. Stop. Losing.

Merry Bloopers!

2008-12-23T22:15:00.001-05:00

Seasons greetings from Emmett Otter and the Jug Band!
(And Arielle)

Domo Arigato, Google

2008-12-22T02:22:00.004-05:00

As the birthday of our Lord and Savior approaches (I'm referring, of course, to Jimmy Buffet and Larry Csonka, respectively), I'm moved to celebrate a Rolling Bones milestone.

This humble blog is now the #1 Google search result for "drunk karaoke songs."

For this honor, I must thank T. Perl, for his tenacious insistance on prolonging the life of "Funky Cold Medina."

So now folks from as far away as Bourbounnais, Ill., and Perth, Australia, dutifully searching for how best to inflict pain upon their drunken comrades, discover this ridiculous list atop 431,000 results. As if someone really needed prompting to join in the glorious splendor of "Sister Christian."

But since 'tis the season for more spiritual sustenance, I offer this throat-choking bit of pure beauty: Leon Russell, Willie Nelson and an ailing Ray Charles singing Russell's "A Song For You" at the Beacon in New York less than a year before Charles died.

It's no "Mr. Roboto." But please forgive me my tresspasses.

Coolest Muthafucka on the Planet

2008-12-18T14:56:00.004-05:00

By TPerl

Obama: The College Years

Paleolithic Pricks

2008-12-15T22:40:00.005-05:00

Ever since the letters DVR marched so triumphantly into my life, TV commercials have become something of a distant stranger.

And while this might spell disaster for networks in much the same way the internet and a tanking economy has been speed-typing the obituary of newspapers, I'm enjoying this golden era, when "The Office" runs right into "30 Rock" in a tight 44 minutes without stopping to hear about some failing car company's new 0.0% financing plan with nothing due at signing (which until last year I had always heard as "do-it signing," which, considering it's a meaningless phrase, left me quite confused).

Anyway. For the most part, I still watch football live. So it caught me a little by surprise when, in the midst of watching the Jets prove just how crappy a team they are, I ran, once again, into this asshole:

Didn't this offensively overplayed, moronic ad campaign beget a still-born, offensively moronic ABC sitcom America embraced about as gladly as a festive case of herpes? Hasn't the country voted for change? What's it going to take to end this monstrosity?

I just can't believe it's in an insurance company's best interest to inflict unending pain upon potential customers. But then these are the same people who find boundless delight in the cavorting of cockney gecko.

I'm reminded of the seemingly decades-long Energizer bunny campaign, which was only briefly interrupted by the battery company's criminal decision to inflict upon America the barking madness of Ausie rules footballer "Jacko." And yeah, I think he got his own sitcom, too.

Don't Let The Shoes Hit You On the Way Out

2008-12-15T13:11:00.003-05:00

It's not hard to gain some enjoyment from the sight of a bitter Iraqi journalist firing not one, but two shoes at the still-president of the United States.

One must truly admire the president's ability to duck projectiles, thrown hard, from close range, and with great accuracy.

And it might be easy, as it appears for our still-president, to laugh off the incident as just one of those things a president must endure. Everyone has critics, right?

But throwing shoes is a gesture of the highest disdain in the Arab world. And as he cursed George Bush for the crimes he's committed against his people, one might wonder if Bush really comprehends what he's done.

It's too easy to psychoanalyze a sitting president from the comfort and distance of my desk chair. But it's hard not to see a smart, but simple and incurious man blinded by the black-and-white comforts so easily swallowed by recovering alcoholic religious zealots.

And yet, how can a moral man of any stripe justify the conclusions reached by this recently released bi-partison Congressional report.

The president of the United States authorized torture. Plain and simple. Just like him.

OJ to begin 9-to-33-year search for real killers in Nevada prison

2008-12-05T18:35:00.009-05:00

It's beyond pathetic.

First morons and incompetents aquit OJ for the near decapitation of his ex-wife and the brutal stabbing of a luckless bystander.

Some 14 years later a bunch of low-lifes set up OJ to commit a crime he probably had no intention of committing.

And now there's a decent chance he'll spend the rest of his life in jail.

I'd be lying if I said it didn't put a smile on my face. But the watch the video of his rambling pre-sentencing statement and it's hard not to feel a twinge of sympathy. Just a twinge. It's worth watching just to hear him say "garnishable."

But then I remember who he is. And it doesn't matter who he has become since then. How low he has fallen into self-delusion and waste. A pathetic murderer is still a murderer.

Holiday!

2008-12-03T22:26:00.006-05:00

By Arielle

No, not that one.

According to the Associated Press, the powers that be in Perry County, Alabama, have officially declared "Barack Obama Day" a county holiday. It will be observed on the second Monday of November and "highlight the Democratic president-elect's victory as a way to give people faith that difficult goals can be achieved."

All 40 county employees will get the day off, paid.

I found this a bit hasty. I'm all for commemorating important historic moments and clinging to whatever optimism we can wring out of the present state of the world, but aren't there proper waiting periods for naming things after people or declaring holidays? Like waiting five years after retiring from football to be eligible for the Hall of Fame, or having to be dead to be considered for sainthood. Or at least waiting for the guy to do something as president.

Besides, can you just declare holidays - the paid, day off from work kind - so casually?

Then I read on: seems the state of Alabama has way more holidays than the rest of us. There's Confederate Memorial Day. That's in April. The state observes Jefferson Davis' birthday in June. Alabama marks the birthday of Martin Luther King Jr. like the federal holiday that it is, but he's got to share the date; the Official State of Alabama Calendar lists the holiday as the "Martin Luther King, Jr./Robert E. Lee Birthday."

So what's one more holiday? Commemorating something that happened since 1865?

I'll be expecting my Barack Obama Day card next Nov. 9.

And That's the Tooth

2008-12-03T20:39:00.001-05:00

Josh Levin at Slate examines Rick Reilly's peculiar oral fixation.

"P"

2008-12-02T20:15:00.002-05:00

Looking back (you know, without the future of the world at stake), the 2+ years we spent deciding on a president was damn entertaining. Time to appreciate the sublime absurdity of Sarah Palin.

Just the Plax, Ma'am

2008-11-29T18:53:00.004-05:00

I'm not one to get all high on the Jets recent success. The Giants are (sickeningly) by far the best team in the league this year.

For the Giants to fail to win the Super Bowl again, they would really have to shoot themselves in the foot.

Er. Bad choice of words?

Hannity & A Tube Sock

2008-11-24T16:22:00.003-05:00

Alan Colmes will be leaving the "Hannity & Colmes" show on Fox News after 12 years.

How long will it take for anyone to notice he's gone?

Lizard People

2008-11-20T22:27:00.002-05:00

Vote on how ballots in the Minnesota Senate race should count.

If you ask me, anyone who can't fill in a simple bubble next to a name doesn't deserve to participate in democracy.

Run, Forest, Run (Away From This Horrible Woman)

2008-11-19T21:42:00.004-05:00

It's time for my semi-annual rant against the evils of Forrest Gump.

I caught about 10 minutes of the shit-fest toward the end. After the moronic cross-country running sequence dictated by plot necessity and featuring the origin of that great American invention, the smiley face T-shirt miraculously transmitted via mudstain. The part when the flashbacks end and Gump realizes he doesn't need to wait for the bus. When he goes to Jenny's apartment and meets his son.

That bit always gets to me. Jenny tells him that Haley Joel Osment is his son, and he freezes up, slowly backing away. Jenny explains he's done nothing wrong (No shit, lady!). And Hanks does this vulnerable, somewhat feminine thing with his hand against his chest as he gathers the courage to ask her if the boy is mentally retarded like him but never quite gets it all out before Jenny answers him. The look of fear and confusion and relief and pride that wash over his face earned Hanks his Oscar right there.

But that's what kills me about this stoooopid movie. I've said before that if there has ever been a more cloying, crass attempt to manipulate an audience without an actual purpose or message, then I haven't seen it.

Seriously. What are we supposed to take away from this film? Stupid is as stupid does? America has gone through some tough and interesting times? War and AIDS are bad? Life is like a box of morons spouting inane drivel to a captive audience?

But what we as a nation need to discuss more often is this: Jenny is the most reprehensible character in the history of American cinema.

Just about every decision she makes is selfish and cruel. We are supposed to sympathize with her because she had an abusive father and was kind to our simple-minded hero. She's America: a flawed beauty born from chaos with a heart of gold and dreams that fuel her excesses.

Fine, sure, whatever.

But how to explain the pure cruelty of her supposed redemption and martyrdom? After teasing Gump for the near entirety of his absurd life, she succumbs to her loneliness by bedding him, hides her pregnancy and his son for three years, and then springs the kid on him when she needs 24-hour nursing for her pathetic, dying ass.

And she asks him to marry her? While the movie wants us to believe this is her great redemptive act of true love, it's actually the cruelest of all her selfish acts.

Here's a good summary of her character arc: No, you can't have me. No. Not yet. Nope. Gotta snort coke and experience the counter-culture, man. Nope. We don't want your stinkin' war! Nope. Ah, what the hell, fuck me just this once. And nope again. See you later. Hey, here's this kid of yours. You can have me now, while I waste away from this debilitating disease and leave you alone for eternity.

Jenny. Baby. If life is like a box of chocolates, you're the one with that rancid mint inside.

New and Sort of...Green!

2008-11-18T22:57:00.003-05:00

Welcome to the slightly improved and evolving Rolling Bones. Do not adjust your computer monitor. That sickly green shade is called ocre. And we be rocking it today.

Just one of the many improvements you can expect here as we work to make your life just a little more boney. What's that you say? Not so much interested in change?

Sounds like you've got yourself a little case of the McCains. Take two hopes and call me in the morning.

The Most Oppressed Person in America

2008-11-18T13:25:00.003-05:00

By TPerl

Wanda Sykes is a black, gay, woman. She might as well just go for broke and become a Scientology-worshipping, dog-fight-organizing, pro-life, terrorist with AIDS.

And be Mexican.

Our Next President

2008-11-06T08:51:00.004-05:00

By Arielle

There is no subtext here. I just love this photo.

Thank God

2008-11-05T08:35:00.003-05:00

By TPerl

It took 8 years, but America finally got it right.

The Rising

2008-11-03T12:56:00.000-05:00

See the future.

Thumbs Way Up

2008-10-18T10:16:00.005-04:00

Roger Ebert is having a rennaissance.

I'm not sure if it's because he can no longer talk, but America's most popular film critic has been on fire recently.

Whether he's got more time on his hands now that he's not appearing on TV or he's just happy to be alive after multiple surgeries and lengthy bouts of bedrest and physical therapy, the man has struck a torrid pace.

There seem to be more reviews of new films in addition to regular contributions to his reviews of Great Movies from the past, the always perceptive and playful Answer Man Q&A column, reader contributions to his witty Little Movie Glossary, analysis of cultural moments such as John McCain's appearance on Letterman, and twists to his writing such as this brilliant dissection of a new film based on the first eight minutes with a link to a thoughtful blog post and an engaged discussion.

In fact, the greatest engine for his newfound enthusiasm seems to be a discovery of blogging. Roger Ebert's Journal has become an outlet for deeper and longer investigations into the many themes and theories he's espoused over the years in reviews.

He's tackled the definition and mission of a critic, taught how to analyze a movie a shot at a time, and talked about how to answer the question "What's your favorite movie?"

To top it off, you get an amazingly refreshing string of intelligent, engaged and almost unfailingly polite comments which Ebert reads and responds to.

I would never wish such severe medical maladies on anyone, much less someone I've enjoyed for so long. But if there is an upside to such struggle and discomfort, I'm glad this one man has found a way to share it.

Country First

2008-10-16T10:29:00.005-04:00

I'm doing my best to avoid blatant political discussion here. But as a service to anyone who plans to vote next month, it should be your duty as an informed citizen to read these two indespensible and engrossingly convergent profiles of Sen. John McCain.

First, the late David Foster Wallace's brilliant look at the "maverick" in 2000. And this recent, even sharper look by Tim Dickenson into the necessity for those quote marks.

Choosing Sides

2008-10-14T23:54:00.003-04:00

My adoptive state of Connecticut has become the third state in the country to legalize gay marriage. This is an encouraging trend that I fully endorse.

But while I applaud the state Supreme Court for granting same-sex couples the freedom to enjoy the same rights as everyone else let me take a moment to say something that might disappoint a small, but well-dressed percentage of the population: I'm still going to marry a woman.

Birthday Update!

2008-10-10T08:56:00.009-04:00

CONNECTICUT - After 34 years of celebrations, a stunning new record has emerged, suggesting that D. Bones has hated birthdays since as far back as 1977.

"I don't like birthdays!" Bones, 34, exclaimed Friday morning, shortly after opening his presents and answering a celebratory phone call.

It appears this is nothing new. New evidence unearthed from a photograph hanging on the wall in the Bones residence indicates a less-than-happy response to an early birthday cake.

It was unclear whether the young Bones was responding to his birthday, the party letdown, or the 1970s-era overuse of denim, sources said.

"Something always went wrong," Bones explained. "Something stupid that got me upset."

"I cried at my first five [birthdays] at least," he continued. "I mean, I was an infant for at least two of them."

Bones, who insisted that he and his future wife have a wedding rather than elope, maintained that he dislikes being the center of attention. "Like it's any great accomplishment to grow older," he said. "And I never like the gifts I get."

Bones then complained about his shoes. "That's what you should have gotten me," he mumbled as he tried to fish a pebble out of a small hole in the heel. "Shoes."

Happy Birthday!

2008-10-10T08:08:00.010-04:00

Two big birthdays today, so I thought we should consider some similarities:

Brett Favre D. Bones

Age: 39 34
Hopeless seasons with Jets: .5 34
Football-related streak: 279 QB starts 632 sad Sundays
Loved by: Peter King Me

Enemy of: PETA OJ

Facial Fuzz: Stubbley Groomed

Hair color: 70% gray 10% gray

Football skills: Can't complain Untapped glory

OJ To Be Inducted Into Hall of Prison Guards and Showertime Rapists

2008-10-04T07:29:00.005-04:00

Ask, and ye shall receive.

It seems for years retailers have steadily jumped the calendar, pulling out the tinsel as early as August to stretch the holiday season. But Christmas really did come early this year.

Santa came in the form of nine women and three men from Sin City who found OJ Simpson guilty on 12 counts stemming from an armed robbery last year.

Does it matter that the crime looked an awful lot like a bunch of scumbags conspiring to send OJ to jail and make money off their eventual book deals? Not to me. My disdain for The Juice has been well documented on this blog. And there is often a greater justice than the American court system.

The question, now that karma has intervened to partially reverse the criminal negligence of the Los Angeles Prosecutor's Office and the 12 Angry Morons selected to serve on the jury of OJ's peers in peerless incompetence, is this: What's next?

A lot has gone wrong since 1995. But this could be the start of something. I will wait patiently while the Supreme Court reverses Bush V. Gore.

And it's about time The Jets get to replay the second half of the 1998 AFC Championship Game against Denver. Vinny Testaverde, Curtis Martin, Keith Byers: Time for some redemption.

Rolling Bones Mark II: Jazz Odyssey

2008-10-04T00:14:00.006-04:00

Something is happening here.

Clearly it hasn't been happening on this blog. It's in my head. And I'm completely flummoxed about how to get it out.

I started this blog while in journalism school. I was finally reconnecting with the part of my brain that takes thoughts and puts them into orderly, occasionally witty words (perhaps too many of them costing above $5)

But at some point I came to a point where I felt useless. I track the traffic here, and it's not an exaggeration to say that the regular readership of this blog could fit in a compact car with a baby seat and a Doberman in back. The others came (though likely not in the way they had hoped) looking for naked pictures of Eva Longoria. And thanks to this fresh reference, I can guarantee a new surge in visitors typing with one hand and their pants at their ankles.

This was disheartening. I mean, I have an ego. I like to think I'm humble, but nobody really writes to be anonymous. As a reporter, I like being recognized and praised for good work even as I maintain a cool, above-it-all, watchdog demeanor.

And I'm perhaps excessively proud of much of the work I've done on this blog. If you happen to be new here or haven't visited in a long time, please peruse a random sampling of archived material represented by the dated months on the right side rail. It's been a place to post some of my most passionate beliefs, some cool though completely obsessive shit, the Great Collaboration on Mock Porn Movie Titles, and my hatred of all things OJ.

I'm also incredibly resistant to Facebook, not necessarily for rational reasons. I like the idea of connecting with friends and family across the country. I like the idea of spying on long-lost friends and acquaintances I really don't care enough to actually connect with. And it's not like I need an excuse to fritter away my time.

But I don't want to put my life out there for scrutiny. If I were to jump into the Facebook pool, I'd maintain strict controls on who and what gets posted. Maybe I can drive some traffic to this blog. But it will never be the kind of confessional therapy session that really attracts readers. And as a reporter, I really shouldn't be talking about all the stuff I actually believe because it could compromise my ability to maintain objectivity in the stories I might cover, scare away potential employers or invite two guys named Phil to confine me in a flourescent light-drenched room and feed me thorugh a straw while speakers blast Clay Aiken day and night.

So what's the solution? This blog can continue to provide a place for me to post cool stuff I encounter on the 'net, complete with a few wry comments. But that really doesn't fire me up. I can try to scrub this site of any reference to my identity. But that probably isn't practical or even possible, depending on how these things get archived across the web.

And yet I can't imagine keeping quiet anymore. There is something going on all right. Something about an election, the looming collapse of the nation's financial system, the assisted suicide of the newspaper industry, and -- on a personal level -- my upcoming wedding, blogging at a site near you.

That last bit is more than a late August ceremony to be attended by at least half of that compact car of Rolling Bones readers. I see the 11 months to come as an opportunity to solidify relationships with family and friends, to reestablish connections with far-flung folks and form a bond with members of a new family. This blog -- and my inevitable capitulation to Facebook -- can help facilitate this.

All of which is to say, something is happening here, and here I'll have something to say about it. Writing is thinking. It's not thinking written down. I need the exercise to make sense of this world. Your comments and contributions will always be welcomed and almost certainly mocked.

With any luck, this new era will soon see a brighter future for the country with a steady, worthy leader in the White House. And OJ in jail.

Happy New Year

2008-09-30T11:24:00.004-04:00

By TPerl

It's the Jewish New Year, in case you didn't know. And TPerl is (supposedly) Jewish, in case you didn't know.
Just how Jewish is he? I'll let you be the judge. Here's a rundown on the activities of some of my family:
- I am working today
- My brother is not working today, but not attending synagogue either
- My Dad has the day off and is going to Atlantic City

If the Jews gave out membership cards, I'm assuming mine would've been revoked years ago.

On an unrelated note, is it me or is this blog circling the drain at this point? I blame Facebook.

Earwaxing Philosophical

2008-08-30T10:37:00.003-04:00

You may have noticed I haven't blogged in a while. Or maybe you haven't, considering how few people visit this site. (Then again, if you don't visit this site, it's hard for you to read this post in the first place).

So much has happened since I last expressed my mind wanderings on the Fourth of July. We've had a Chinese Olympics with record-breaking accomplishments, pre-pubescent gymnasts and hours and hours of bikini-clad beach volleyball coverage. The New York Jets traded for a drama queen Hall of Famer in the twilight of his career. The Democrats nominated a black guy who should be president.

I could go on and on and on (and on) about this stuff. But what really got me all riled up today is this story about earwax.

Apparently, despite my lifelong history of swabbing the yellow shit out of my ears with fascinated disgust, earwax is good for you. Something about providing lubrication and whatnot. And -- get this -- it's self-cleaning!

Question: Ears have been on fully evolved human heads for, let's say to be conservative, forever. Why are we only learning this in 2008? And has anyone told the Q-Tip people?

This is not a casual question. It seems everything I've ever been taught growing up turns out to be wrong. Milk does the body good (it doesn't, really. And when you think that we're the only species that drinks the milk of another species, it's kinda gross). Smoking isn't addictive. Fox is fair and balanced. Michael Bolton is talented. All lies.

So forgive me for my cynicism and skepticism. So much of what is wrong in our world derives from someone else exploiting neuroses and fear to make money. If I ever meet the dude that invented Q-Tips, I'm gonna stick a handfull of swabs up his ass. Take that, Leo Gerstenzang!

Rockin' the Mic

2008-08-14T13:50:00.005-04:00

By TPerl

I'm meeting my friend Rocky for lunch next week. I haven't seen him in a while since we're usually on different coasts, and I was reminded again about how cool his job is, especially when compared to mine. Rocky works for a major league baseball team. His office is inside the stadium - how cool is it to wake up every day for work and commute to a major league ballpark!

Also, in his spare time, he does radio broadcasts for the local minor league affiliate. When I went to visit Rocky a few years ago, I got to sit in the booth with him while he did the game - it was a blast. During one inning, he let me participate in the broadcast as his "special guest" - he interviewed me between plays about my baseball loyalties and experiences. The funniest part was when the half-inning ended and Rocky deadpanned to me "Can you stick around for another half-inning?" as if I was a VIP with places to go and people to see.

Check out Rocky in action by clicking the link above - he's got the first 2 highlights and the last highlight in the series of clips.

Doubles Diving

2008-08-12T20:55:00.003-04:00

By Arielle

I am a sucker for the Olympics. I love just about everything about them - the big sports, the bizarre sports, the patriotism, the NBC Olympic music, the cheesy stories about the athletes who overcame absurd obstacles, Bob Costas...it all gets a free pass through my skeptical filter.

But I have a problem with this year's Olympics, and it's not just about Darfur and important things like genocide. No, this is sports-related.

What the hell is up with doubles diving?

It's actually pretty cool to watch. Two divers jump off a platform at the same time and do flips in unison. Pretty cool. But..this is really a sport? Like, at the same time that they cut softball and baseball from all future Olympics? Seriously?

I'm sure synchronized diving requires more and different skills that the regular, one-person kind. But if you have to limit the number of sports, shouldn't you maybe start with sports that are, like, literally redundant? If the doubles divers don't make the team, they can always try out as a single. Softball players...what do they do? Try badminton?

My friend Pam also has a good point about this: If you have doubles diving, why not doubles for every sport? Doubles hurdling? Synchronized javelin? Synchronized volleyball?

And you thought your commute sucked...

2008-07-25T08:26:00.003-04:00

By TPerl

I needed to spend the day in the Boston office on Wednesday. So I flew out Wednesday morning from Newark to Logan. Then it rained. And here's the chronology of my trip home:

5:10PM: leaves office
5:12PM: stands in the rain looking for a cab
5:28PM: finally gets a cab
5:50PM: arrives at Logan, checks in for 4:30PM flight which is scheduled to depart at 7:49PM
6:15PM: Wendy's for dinner
7:05PM: Miller Lite at the bar - the Red Sox game goes into extra innings (how appropriate)
8PM: our plane arrives at the gate, but we cannot board for an hour due to weather in Newark
8:10PM: Coffee Coolatta from Dunkin Donuts
9:15PM: we board
9:30PM: we're told that we cannot leave the gate due to bad weather in Newark. Next update to come in a half hour
10PM: still not allowed to leave. Next update in 45 minutes
10:50PM: still not allowed to leave. Next update in an hour. People are allowed to leave the plane to cancel or reboard later. I stay on the plane. First flight tomorrow morning is already cancelled.
11:52PM: those who left the plane (and didn't leave the airport) begin to re-board the plane
12:09AM: plane finally leaves the gate
12:20AM: takeoff!!!
1:32AM: land in Newark
2:02AM: get in my car
2:25AM: home in bed

USA! USA! USA!

2008-07-03T22:58:00.002-04:00

I love this country. Mostly because I understand what patriotism is and hope what's good about this country can cure what's bad about it.

But this excellent list of crap is ridiculous -- sickly sweet treats for people who feast on a steady diet of jingoistic bullshit. Happy Fourth of July.

Most People Are Not Particularly Good At Anything

2008-06-23T10:12:00.002-04:00

This just sucks.

Waking up to this news on a cloudy day-off from work takes the luster off my laziness. This is sad, useless news. The kind that was certainly to be delivered eventually. The same as it will for us all.

Maybe there is some irony (nah) that thanks in part to George Carlin, I can get no solace from religion. I've often said that I'm a cynical idealist -- someone who expects the worst in people but deep down, often secretly, hopes for the best. My philosophy in life has been a marriage of the teachings of Carlin and Kurt Vonnegut, whose humanism always seemed to trump his deism and whose words I stole for this blog's epigraph.

Now they are both gone. And yeah, Vonnegut smoked unfiltered Pall Malls most of his life, almost as a defiant tar-stained middle finger to any almighty being who might strike him down for having dared to live so long with two such abused lungs. And Carlin lived to 71, leaving us piles of wisdom disguised as comedy. He had done enough for me, even if I always clammored for more. It's his family's loss I feel today.

But I won't pray for them. Or him. The old dead bastard said it best:

"If it's God's will, and he's going to do what he wants to anyway, why the fuck bothering praying in the first place? Seems like a big waste of time to me."

But not you, George.

------------------------------------

Spirituality: the last refuge of a failed human. Just another way of distracting yourself from who you really are.

You know what you never hear about? A bunch of Jews being hit by a tornado.
Every six minutes there's a rape in this country, and boy, is my dick sore. I'm tellin' ya, every day, house to house, there's no letup. It's a fuckin' hassle.
There's something I like about the clitoris, but I can't quite put my finger on it.
If there really are multiple universes, what do they call the thing they're all a part of?
Instead of warning pregnant women not to drink, I think female alcoholics ought to be told not to fuck.
I'd like to pass along a piece of wisdom my first-grade teacher shared with us kids. She said, "You show me a tropical fruit, and I'll show you a cocksucker from Guatemala." I'll always remember that.
I hope we're not just human garbage drifting toward a big sewer. But I think so.
Do you ever open the dictionary right to the page you want? Doesn't that feel good?
They say only 10 percent of the brain's function is known. Apparently, the function of the remaining 90 percent is to keep us from discovering its function.
Griddle cakes, pancakes, hotcakes, flapjacks: why are there four names for grilled batter and only one word for love?
I would like to open a restaurant, call it the Marilyn Monroe Cafe, and put hundreds of pictures of Jeff Goldblum on the
wall.
Here's more bullshit middlebrow philosophy: "That which doesn't kill me makes me stronger." I've got something a little more realistic: "That which doesn't kill me still may sever my spinal cord, crush my rib cage, cave in my skull, and leave me helpless and paralyzed, soaking in a puddle of my own waste." Put that on your T-shirt, touchy-feely, New Age asshole!
Life and let live, that's what I say. Anyone who can't understand that should be killed. It's a simple philosophy, but it's always worked well in our family.
I don't understand why prostitution is illegal. Selling is legal, fucking is legal. So, why isn't it legal to sell fucking? Why should it be illegal to sell something that's legal to give away? I can't follow the logic. Of all the things you can do to a person, giving them an orgasm is hardly the worst.
In the army they give you a medal for killing people; in civilian life you go to jail for giving them orgasms. Am I missing something?
Why aren't there any really disturbing pop songs, like "Tomorrow I'm Gonna Fuck Your Wife."
A long time ago in England a guy named Thomas Culpepper was hanged, beheaded, quartered, and disemboweled. Why do I have the impression women were not involved in these activities?
If a group of people stand around in a circle long enough, eventually they will begin to dance.
Why is it every time some celebrity gets cancer the National Enquirer says he's "vowed to lick this thing." Just once I'd like to hear a guy say, "I've got cancer, and this is it. I'll be dead in a few months."

But enough about boobs (sort of)

2008-06-20T08:42:00.004-04:00

By TPerl

Just to show I can appreciate some good political/social commentary, check out what CBS News Chief Foreign Correspondent Lara Logan had to say on The Daily Show, confirming what most intelligent folk already knew about the US news media. Still, it's somewhat surprising to hear someone in the mainstream media be so blunt.

Plus, she's smokin hot.

The Erotic Adventures of Hercules

2008-06-17T09:31:00.002-04:00

Tory McClure film or actual terrible movie? Take the suprisingly difficult quiz.

And Now For Something Far More Wholesome

2008-06-13T22:24:00.004-04:00

Kermit v. Nicky Holiday?

My Vote for Prom Queen

2008-06-12T14:10:00.003-04:00

By TPerl

The above picture is an actual high school prom photo (see above link for the full album). While the photo certainly speaks for itself, here are some of my thoughts:
- Is she really the kid's classmate, or a professional escort?
- I guess girls really do mature much faster than boys
- What's with the slanty photography? Do those huge fucking tits have their own gravitational pull or something?
- I guess the reason this dude looks so pale is 'cause all the blood is rushing from his head to the huge erection forming in his tuxedo
- If this is what passes for prom dresses these days, I'll just have to break the news to my daughters now that they will never attend a prom. In fact, they may never attend high school.

Here's one more look, in case you missed it:

"Hey, my eyes are up here buddy! What? Oh yeah, you're right, who needs eyes when you got these ginormous funbags to swing around?"

And Then There's This

2008-06-04T00:24:00.004-04:00

I'm a cynical idealist. I expect the worst in people, but deep down, I hope for the best. There has been little to hope for over the last seven or eight years and much reason to dispair. I have seen the future, brother. It is murder.

And though a president can't fix everything that's broken or likely do anything by himself, there is something to be said for inspiration. And integrity. And even though it's a cliche damn it: hope.

Take it from the little Jew who wrote the bible:

I've seen the nations rise and fall
I've heard their stories, heard them all
but love's the only engine of survival
Your servant here, he has been told
to say it clear, to say it cold:
It's over, it ain't going
any further

The Future

2008-05-19T01:23:00.004-04:00

A musical meditation on the state of the world and where we are going...

"Ultimate" -- Gogol Bordello

"Hard Day on the Planet" -- Loudon Wainright III

"Are You Alright" -- Lucinda Williams

"Hard Sun" -- Eddie Vedder

"Wreck on the Highway" -- Bruce Springsteen

"Keep Me In Your Heart" -- Warren Zevon

"Calling All Angels" -- Jane Siberry

"The Future" -- Leonard Cohen

"I Can Only Imagine" -- MercyMe

"Until the End of the World" -- U2

"Reason to Believe" -- Bruce Springsteen

"He Was a Friend of Mine" -- Cat Power

"Tears of Rage" -- The Band

"Shine Silently" -- Nils Lofgren

"Tea for the Tillerman" -- Cat Stevens

"Long Walk Home" -- Bruce Springsteen

"Many Rivers to Cross" -- Jimmy Cliff

To Play Us Out

2008-05-13T00:03:00.004-04:00

I know I've been away from this blog so long, you probably have had to get your fix of Harrisonalysis elsewhere (I'm told there's a bunch available in Ecuador).

So much going on in the world. War, cyclones, tornados, earthquakes, Hillary Clinton. And yet I'm here today to give you another in a long series of moments I like to call "Bill O'Reilly is a Raving Jackass."

Enjoy. (NSFW)

Even better: Stephen Colbert takes it to the next level of absurdity.

Which, of course, leads us to the inevitable, inimicable, dance remix:

Random Conversation at Work

2008-04-30T14:11:00.003-04:00

By TPerl

Caught the following conversation between two colleagues who were walking by my office today:

"Hey, is today Tuesday or Wednesday?"

"Uh, Tuesday"

(It is, of course, Wednesday as I write this)

Farewell, Phantom Dan

2008-04-18T11:13:00.001-04:00

A sad day on E Street. Rest in peace, Danny Federici. The fireworks are hailin' over Little Eden tonight.

Pining for the Fjords

2008-04-10T23:27:00.003-04:00

Nerve.com and IFC combine to provide an excellent way to spend the rest of your Friday with their supposed 50 Greatest Comedy Sketches of All Time.

The list is as debatable as any stupid list. The State and Mr. Show are well represented, SNL too much, childhood HBO favorite of mine "Not Necessarily the News" not at all, and the commentary is mostly moronic. But you gots yourselves lots a YouTubers of some classic yucks. Yee-ha, goodtimes.

Thrilling

2008-04-09T20:36:00.004-04:00

By Arielle

I'm glad as anyone that Patrick Swayze is responding well to his chemotherapy. But isn't this headline a little...um...well...you know...off?

People Exclusive
Patrick Swayze 'Thrilled' by His Response to Cancer Treatment
By Mike Fleeman and Julie Jordan
Originally posted Tuesday April 08, 2008 02:30 PM EDT