Smith vs. Siegel

ABC reviewer Joel Siegel walked out of a press screening of Kevin Smith's "Clerks 2" after 40 minutes, loudly declaring "Time to go!'' and "This is the first movie I've walked out of in 30 fucking years!"

Check out Smith's rant and then listen to him shit all over Siegel on Opie and Anthony.

Somehow I imagine this will be far more entertaining than the movie.

Eich Bin Ein Neck-Rubber

Just a typical moment in the life of our frat-boy-in-chief who doesn't realize it's not exactly presidential to offer a surprise neck-rub to the German chancellor.

He's only been president of the United Fucking States for over five years. Hasn't learned not to diminish world leaders with overly familiar, unwanted and downright icky gestures? Good luck solving the world's problems, Georgie.

Career Planning For Dummies

I am not a lawyer. This is a good thing.

Save a SEAL

Thirteen hundred people showed up to a bone marrow drive in Spotswood yesterday to try and save a U.S. Navy SEAL with blood cancer.

To learn more about the Department of Defense's bone marrow program, click here.

Larry The Minstrel Guy

Here's a clip of Larry The Cable Guy before he put on the black face of a red neck. As usual, hicks are too dumb to be offended.

NRO Got Fooled Again

John J. Miller from National Review Online compiled a list of the 50 greatest conservative rock songs. He did so with a contortionist's effort to twist words to his purposes, ignoring the avowed and blatant liberal ideologies of the songwriters while expressing a curious affinity for Rush and the Kinks. Mostly, though, he just picked a lot of mediocre and crappy songs. His second list is no better.

It takes a real genius to include songs by The Sex Pistol and The Clash on this list. Not to mention those conservative poster-boy bands like The Beatles. It's an exercise akin to walking in as an uninvited guest to dinner at someone's house and telling them their interior decoration is all wrong for their sense of style.

I'm particularly irked by Miller's insistence that any song expressing patriotism or "conservative values" belongs primarily to the Rush Limbaugh set and not to someone who both loves his country and has the balls to criticize it occasionally. Since when is unconditional love such a high value? Isn't this how women get abused by their husbands and fathers? Well, luckily we have Aerosmith's (apparently completely earnest) paean to a daughter's trigger-happy gun-lust revenge on her daddy in "Janie's Got a Gun." I'm sure that's something Richard Tyler is proud of.

Suggesting CCR's "Who'll Stop the Rain" is anything but a lefty anti-Vietnam anthem is just plain wishful thinking.

I'll let Pete Townshend defend his "Won't Get Fooled Again" as Miller's pick for the #1 conservative rock song.

I always find it funny to hear Sean Hannity or Rush Limbaugh or Laura Ingraham play music by Don Henley or Bruce Springsteen or Neil Young as bumpers before and after commercials. It's fun to think you belong to a club that would shun you.

The bottom line is that rock music has always been made primarily to foment change and kick at the doors of the establishment. When so-called conservative notions leak into the mix, it's only because we are not a country (or world) of black and white, red and blue, bad and good automotons, but human beings with complicated opinions and feelings. Loving your country and wishing it were even better are not mutually exclusive stances.

To borrow from today's youth vernacular and the religious right's most recent bugaboo, let me say this about Miller's attempt to ingratiate his ideology on rock music: That's soooo gay.

A Grateful Anthem

Happy Independence Day, America.

Betting, Littering, and Burying

Off-track betting comes to Woodbridge, somewhat under the radar of residents.

Iselin's Little India just ain't the way it used to be, especially if you're not from South Asia.

And Woodbridge mourns the death of their mayor. Funeral service attendees included former Mayor and former Gov. Jim McGreevey, who is a lot shorter than I suspected.

Woodbridge Mayor Dies

Woodbridge Mayor Frank Pelzman died yesterday.

Here are my three stories.

How Can A Poor Man Stand Such Times And Live?

The answer to that question, first asked by Depression-era songwriter Alfred Reed, is: Bruce Springsteen.

My passion for Bruce only seems to grow with time. As times get harder and darker, he lifts and shows the light. In this song, first performed with three new verses he wrote to perform in New Orleans, Bruce does that Bruce thing. From tragedy and anger and pain comes enlightenment and the sliver of hope. Even if that hope only lasts as long as it takes to finish a song.

As always, Bruce isn't for everyone (certainly not on a first-name basis like we are). But listen to this and try not to feel. It probably says more about you than him, I figure.

And you can always let him teach you to count.

By The Dawn's Early Blight

A Woodbridge woman flies the Puerto Rican flag on her lawn, mostly to spite her neighbors. What a country! (Spoken in Yakov Smirnoff accent.)

Tangled Up in the Big Red

"All the people we used to know/ they're an illusion to me now/ Some are mathematicians/ some are carpenters' wives/ Don't know how it all got started/ I don't know what they're doin' with their lives.'' … Bob Dylan

Living in New Jersey again has been disorienting to my sense of forward narrative thrust. I always thought my life's story should move me -- physically, at least -- to new and far-flung places. But little disorients more than confronting your past and present at the same time.

I should have expected the cold.

Ten years ago, I graduated from a school perched -- hunched, really -- on a hill in Ithaca, N.Y., the product of an ancient glacier that plopped down for some millennia on its way to the valley it was to form.

The school is a collection of ivy-and-rust-covered buildings in a most uncomfortably beautiful landscape. It was founded by a man named Ezra Cornell, and he thought: "Could there be a more strenuous location for my university?'' Likely, no. There it sits, and all others trudge.

I drove back there two weeks ago for the Class of '96 Reunion, and of course it rained.

I honestly can't remember a trip to school when it wasn't raining or snowing. Sunshine was out of the question. Other towns further north might get more snow, might get colder in negative degrees Fahrenheit or wind-chill index, but few towns can surpass the all-encompassing climatic misery that dominates Ithaca.

The seriousness with which most inhabitants/students take the university, is co-enabler in this particularly dysfunctional family. Solid months of head-down frozen slogging, wind-shielding, toe-numbing pain and despondency. And then there's the winter.

Perhaps because of the weather or just the prevailing attitude, the Cornell campus is one where eye contact is a precious commodity, hoarded away -- stockpiled for rare and disingenuous occasions.

So the reunion was an opportunity to exercise those old avoidance skills, while wearing a sweatshirt and holding an air-chilled beer on summer days.

I attended with a contingent of 10 close friends, whose weddings I've been and will go to, whose children I poke in the stomach, and whose money I borrow for the time in between winning it in poker and losing it at the next game.

I embraced and kissed other friends and acquaintances, happy to see them and learn the brief rundown of their lives. Some encounters jarred me a little. It turns out three guys from my high school class married three girls from college (I guess they're women now, even if that still doesn't sound right), and they live in and around my hometown.

I'm not sure how I feel about Ron and Beth living in Vicky's childhood home with their twin babies. Old, I suppose.

But also young. Having recently graduated journalism school with a younger crowd and setting out on a new career, I've learned you're only as old as you feel. And if I subtract the rapid aging that comes from pulling for the New (Jersey) Jets, then I'm feeling pretty young these days.

Mostly we drank and ate bad, wonderful things smothered with cheese. We stayed in the same dorms we lived in as freshmen and clogged the same toilets, smelled the same musty smells and mocked the monstrous construction transforming part of the campus into incongruous public housing projects. We stayed up late talking about nothing and tried not to feel tired.

Driving back to my current life, the roads stayed dry and I stopped off to watch a school buddy's baby crawl into walls with a smile wider than the Delaware Water Gap. I arrived home in Highland Park filled with curiosity about the future and warmed by memories.

Kids Play Lax, Adults Wear Funny Hats, and the Benefits of Fire Tax

Monroe lacrosse kids smack each other silly.

Adult graduates in New Brunswick get ready for all-new post-diploma disappointments of life.

And Carteret Fire Company #2 turns 100. Blow out the candles (but not with that can of hairspray).

Heil Heathcliff!

Here's a blog dedicated to cats that look like Hitler. And might I say, it's about time.

A Harvard Giggity Address

Family Guy guru Seth MacFarlane speaks to Harvard grads. So does Peter and Stewie Griffin. And, of course, Quagmire.

Top Five Songs About Satan

Now, we all know that there has been a slight revision to the Number of the Beast. But in honor of 6/6/06, here are the greatest tunes for a dance with the Devil:

5. Friend of the Devil, The Grateful Dead
4. Highway to Hell, AC/DC
3. Hellhound on My Trail, Robert Johnson
2. Running with the Devil, Van Halen
1. Sympathy For the Devil, The Rolling Stones

Honorable Mention: "Devil’s Haircut" by Beck, "Devil With the Blue Dress" by Mitch Ryder and the Detroit Wheels, "Devil’s Right Hand" by Johnny Cash, "Devil Went Down to Georgia" by Charlie Daniels Band, "Shout at the Devil" by Motley Crue, and "Number of the Beast" by Iron Maiden

Columnist Recycles Blogs

If you didn't read the original, then it's new to you.

The Word on O'Reilly

Bill O'Reilly's "Talking Points Memo" getting the Colbert treatment. Play along at home. It's really too much fun.

TV? Or Not TV? That is the Question

Deeeeaaaaal? Or no Deal?

Ah, summertime. Time to hit the open roads and inhale the fumes of the interstate. Time to sweat uncontrollably. Time to attack the freedoms of other Americans in a naked ploy to cater to a blinkered and bigoted voter base.

And for many, it's time to pry themselves away from their televisions and plop their plump, melanoma-tempting bodies on public beaches so that our nation's local news affiliates can gather all new B-roll footage for that next report on our growing obesity epidemic.

Yup, there's plenty to do outdoors. But this was the year I gained an all new appreciation for the great indoor sport of television-viewing. Where the good can hardly compete with the bad -- and when we are truly blessed -- the brilliantly god-awful. So maybe you can set your DVR to catch some of these choice selections after cleaning all the sand out of little Johnny's ass.

I'm not gonna waste time opining on that glorified karaoke contest, "American Idol." It's allure is pretty simple: Come to watch amateurs butcher American classics; stay to watch the slow unraveling of Paula Abdul and the spectacle of Randy Jackson attempting to sound black. Can we all agree to forget about this show until its cancerous relapse in January?

And I can't believe America embraced "Deal or No Deal." I'll admit I watched it a bunch of times. But only to root for people to lose money. I just can't endorse a herd of photogenic, excitable mouth-breathers handed a chance to win millions playing a "game" in which there is no discernable skill beyond luck and balls. I particularly liked how host Howie Mandell would carefully explain every obvious stage of the game, milking the manufactured tention, sending us forever to commercials before quietly, with his hands clasped near his chin, solemnly intoning, "OK...Open the case." Wow. Now that's TV, folks.

But my favorite discovery this year was NBC's "The Office." The perfect collision of concept and execution that actually improves on a beloved British import. Steve Carrell leads a pitch-perfect cast of fully-realized characters topped off with the giddy incarnation of Dwight Schrute by Rainn Wilson. Absurd, but rooted in the horrible truths of office life. And finally, here's a show that played its will-they-ever-get-together sexual tension hand to the hilt. This show has set an awfully high bar for next year.

And I'm very proud of myself for seeing past my initial misgivings over the unfortunately titled "House, M.D." Hugh Laurie creates the most entertaining television character on the air -- next to Tony Soprano and "Deadwood"s Al Swearengen. "House" gets the award for the perfect balance of formulaic medical mystery and gradual development of interpersonal relationships, all peppered with scathing witicisms and general dialogue brilliance.

On the west coast of medical comedy, the allure of "Scrubs" tacerbic ascerbic wit of "House" and tweaks everything into beyond-absurd silliness. With a heart. Not exactly hilariconstantlyonstently inventive, funny and entertaining. Even if you want to slap Zach Braff on occasion for his (by design) constant mugging and monkey-like capering.

But there's far more to television than the network-churned crap. Ya gotta dig a little deeper into your cable package to discover the gems. Stuff like "Airline" on A&E, in which cameras follow the crews of Southwest Airlines as they cope with drunk passengers and lost luggage. This is as close as you can get to watching someone who just got bumped from an overbooked flight belittle a hapless agent who can only smile and try to absorb the abuse -- without being that poor schnook.

I highly recommend stopping in "The No-Sense Zone" to watch Bill O'Reillequipped ill-equiped liberal straw men and campaign against pedophiles. But if his solo act merits your attention, the fun doubles when he matches witlessness with frequent guest and mustachioed Fox cohort Geraldo Rivera. There's nothing quite like listening to two dudes investigate, try and execute all sorts of bad people from the comfort of their anchor chairs. It's like an Irish banana republic.

Equally impassioned, but somewhat more reasoned are the diatribes on IFC's "The Henry Rollins Show." Rollins will rail against Bush and Condi Rice with all the spit and venom of a more muscular Al Franken. But he's also a film fanatic with a knack for carrying on interesting conversations with folks like Werner Herzog, Paul Thomas Anderson or Jeff Bridges. Far more engaging and eloquent than his music ever was.

For the subversive, sickening progeny of "South Park" and "Family Guy," look to MTV2's "Wonder Showzen." Modeled like a "Sesame Street"-style kiddie's show with animation and live-action puppets, "Wonder Showzen" stretches bad taste until it curdles over on itself into some other form of taste. Children are prompted to say inappropriate and offensive (by anyone's standards) stuff to unsuspecting marks in on-the-street interviews. Other remote bits put hectoring beyond-Triumph-The-Insult-Comic-Dog confrontations in the mouth of a blue, cuddly high-pitched puppet. The cartoons are racist, vulgar and frankly disgusting (a bit called DOG OBGYN comes to mind). You should check this out just to see how far an envelope can be pushed before someone shoots the mailman.



And while we're visiting MTV2, I recommend anyone not from an inner city or familiar with its culture to check out "Fight Klub," a weekly cutting contest between two unsigned rappers. I'm a white kid from the suburbs. I'm not really sure there's a way for me to describe this spectacle without sounding racist. But setting aside the actual content, I can't imagine the attitude of this show could be doing anyone any good. It surely isn't my place to judge. But jeez.

For more wholesome subversion of morality and taste, check out the wonderous "Robot Chicken" on the Cartoon Network. A stop-animation skewering of culture, history...everything, voiced with a dizzying collection of top-tier talent collected by co-creators Seth Green and Matt Senreich. A bunch of quick-hitting shorts (that add up to about 12 minutes an episode), it's another show which is far better than it has any right to be.

But you'd rather go to the beach, eh? Suit yourself. Bathing suit yourself. Seriously. Nobody wants to see that.

Still Employed

--Middlesex County College graduation,

--A 20-year-old Board of Ed member and the mayor's son arrested for shooting pellet guns in a parking lot,

--It's beginning to feel like summer in an Edison park,

--A Rutgers football player speaks to Highland Park 8th graders,

--And the owner of a New Brunswick preschool threatens to close her doors after getting drubbed by the state Department of Education over her bookkeeping.

Anybody got anything witty to help tie this stuff together? No? Didn't think so.

The Colbert Retort

Much has been made of Steven Colbert's skewering of President Bush at the White House Correspondent's Dinner. And for a good reason.

Has any president ever suffered such public withering criticism while forced to just sit there and smile? The discomfort in the room seeps through the C-SPAN cameras. This performance was not for the assembled politicos and journalists, but the American people (those of us with eyes, ears and brains) who can only laugh at the black comedy that is the Bush Administration.

If for some reason you haven't seen the performance or read a complete transcript, you really should. It's your duty as an American to witness Colbert as he speaks truth to power, and then displays King-Kong-sized balls while shaking his hand with a broad smile.

But then, maybe George W. Bush doesn't exactly get irony. Even when he's getting it pie-in-the-face:

"I stand by this man. I stand by this man because he stands for things. Not only for things, he stands on things. Things like aircraft carriers and rubble and recently flooded city squares. And that sends a strong message, that no matter what happens to America, she will always rebound -- with the most powerfully staged photo ops in the world."

The truth hurts. Even if it's couched in truthiness.

Depleted Oxygen

So I've just figured out how to embed YouTube videos in this blog (not difficult, I know). And I couldn't resist sharing this treasure from somwhere deep in the forest of 1980s soft rock cheese. It's Air Supply's "Making Love Out of Nothing At All" and I invite you to witness the acting chops of the band's Jeff Daniels look-a-like. And pay particular attention to the little dance the white afro dude does at the 2:55 mark. Then check out this comprehensive list of other YouTube 80s music videos. Too much fun, really.

Loose Stools

I you want to inspect one of the piles of steaming elephant shit seeping across the nation these days, spend one hour, 21 minutes and 50 seconds watching Loose Change, 2nd Edition and then head here, here and here to help wash the ick off. (Video above is only the trailer.)

It's actually quite entertaining. There's nothing like a good conspiracy theory to get the blood flowing away from your brain. And the accessibility of information these days makes even a crew of 20-something would-be "documentarians" into Oliver Stone. But without the sense of proportion.

It irks me that anyone would invoke the memory of the victims when painting the attacks of 9/11 as some orchestrated scheme to wage unimpeded war or achieve some Bond-villain global dominance.

I'm not about to get into a pissing match with 9/11 conspiracy theorists on the supposed merits of their arguments. Talking sense to people like these serves as much purpose as licking a bald man's head to solve algebraic equations. And those rebuttal sites linked above do an admirable job picking apart the film frame-by-frame, with appropriate disdain and snark. (Pay close attention to the stubborn replies of the die-hards, blind in the face of contradicting evidence.)

But in case you don't have the patience or spare time, allow me to summarize: 9/11 was a conspiracy. One undertaken by 19 fanatic Al Qaida henchmen supported by a network of terrorists led (at least then) by Ossama bin Laden. All of the untold heaps of evidence collected before and since Sept. 11 point in this direction.

Of course, there's always the temptation to look at all the unanswered questions, apparent inconsistencies or coincidences and scream rat. Without stopping to think that there really wasn't any kind of blueprint for what might happen when fully-fueled jet liners are rammed at top speeds into skyscrapers and fortified pentagonal buildings.

Or wondering how thousands of people across almost every government agency have managed to execute such a perfect plan in perfect secrecy, with nobody speaking a word of it even 4 1/2 years later. [Though the moon landing must have been faked. I mean, who ever heard of a flag waving in the vacuum of space? Huh? Whassat? Wires in the material so it looked unfurled? NASA nerds think of everything.]

Or -- the real kicker -- crediting the administration of George W. Bush with such a crack operation while they can't seem to do much else. Only on 24 is the president both incompetent and a criminal mastermind.

It's absurd that I'm even making these points. Anyone who believes the nonsense in this movie and on the endless parade of nutbag websites likely believes Ryan Seacrest orchestrated the Mexican wrestling cream corn conspiracy.

The people who get their panties in a bunch over such lunacy certainly distrust their government. So do I. But for all its faults, Bush, Cheney, Rummy, et al. are not homicidal maniacs. At least not intentionally.

And picking apart a theory for its supposed gaps doesn't help build a competing theory. This is the fallacy of Intelligent Design, which attempts to undermine the 140 years of scientific evidence in support of natural selection in favor of an untestable theory for which there is ZERO evidence.

Like the OJ Simpson defense team, which argued each and every piece of the prosecution's case without presenting anything resembling a competing theory that might explain the facts. I mean, those smug pricks would argue that the LAPD were both cunning framers of an innocent man and incompetent investigators who allowed the evidence to become contaminated and unreliable.

Those examples weren't selected randomly. At least in the news media, this country is splitting along racial and religious lines. When the obvious lessons of Crash earn critical acclaim and Oscar gold, when Katrina shows us who really gets left behind, when South Dakota proposes a ban on all abortion and the Christianist activists oppose contraception even for married couples , when the way to get elected seems to be advocating discrimination against homosexuals, when scientists are compromised by political interests ... this country is heading for something worse than a fabricated War on Christmas.

So when a local Fox News station airs a segment on the moronic bile of Loose Change, it provides legitimacy to crackpots and marks another step down a path with little opportunity for escape. A path where debate is replaced by the insistence of people who know they are right without having earned their enlightenment through a rational examination of the facts.

We are building a country where half the people are covering themselves with infected diarrhea, happy as blind pigs and incapable of thought.

At least it's entertaining.

When I Grow Up I Wanna Be Self-Empowered

Douglass College graduates another class of uppity womyn into the wyrld. And New Brunswick tykes get a head start on a life of crushing career disappointments.

A Fish, a Fire and a (Possible) Liar

Don Shula comes to town to celebrate his Hungarian heritage, a fire in a dryer burns down a Sayreville house, and Middlesex County political boss John Lynch takes an exit..stage left.

Yes, I know a dolphin is not a fish.

A Fine Mess

New Brunswick's in a titter over it's litter ordinance. And in unrelated news, Free Comic Book Day comes to town. That's unrelated news until people chuck their free books on someone's lawn.

United 93

I couldn't think of a good reason to go see United 93, the new film about the flight that crashed in a field in Shanksville, Pa., on Sept. 11, 2001.

Now that I've seen the movie, I'm still not sure if I can think of a good reason. But I'm glad I saw it.

For some reason, I like revisiting old traumas. There's something intoxicating and maybe a little useful about immersing yourself in anxiety. Reconnecting with horror.

It wasn't an enjoyable experience.

The only other time I can remember having a similar visceral reaction to a movie — just letting it take over my emotions and physiology without any detachment — it was The Blair Witch Project.

For both films, I allowed myself to experience the events as though they were actually happening. As though I were there. But Blair Witch was a contrived thrill ride, designed to spook and scare. We all know the too-true story of United 93. And on screen, filmed by virtuoso writer-director Paul Greengrass (The Bourne Supremacy, Bloody Sunday), it felt 100 percent convincing. And 100 percent horrifying.

I fidgeted in my seat from the very beginning. It was excruciating. I felt angry. Helpless. Sick. Knowing what was to happen only made it worse. My hand held steady on my chin, on my temple, over my mouth. My pulse raced until the credits rolled, and I left the theater feeling somehow heavier.

The entire film played like a time portal back to that Tuesday almost five years ago. (Can it possibly have been that long?) A day when nobody knew the name Osama bin Laden. A day when a hijacking was something that played out on a tarmac in Europe, with hostages and demands and talk of releasing prisoners somewhere. A day when suddenly there wasn't anything else to think about.

I was outbound in the Lincoln Tunnel that morning when American Airlines 11 smacked into the North Tower of the World Trade Center. By the time I switched from CD to radio and figured out what had happened, the 1010 WINS reporter was talking about how — right at that moment — we were all living in a new world. It was a moment when hardly any exaggeration didn't ring true.

These days, I spend lots of time driving up and down the New Jersey Turnpike past Newark Liberty International Airport and southern Manhattan. When I see an airplane arc after takeoff or glide toward landing, I can't help but flash back to those familiar TV images. I see United 175's sleek, sickening silhouette cutting the blinding blue city sky on its way toward the South Tower.

This film brings it all back. Unrelenting. Uncompromising. It's a testament to those who lost their lives, those who fought back and those who tried to do their jobs under impossible circumstances, with a hint of exasperation for those that failed us all.

In today's disposable entertainment culture, United 93 has already almost left the stage. Forgotten in the din created by Tom Cruise and the rest of the summer season, filled with retreads and superheroes.

This film shouldn't suffer that fate. It can be a rallying cry to question the people who purport to protect us today. It can be a historical document of one of our darkest days, written in lightning until something new and long overdue thunders down.

I still can't think of any good reason to see this movie. Except to remember. And relive, so — perhaps smarter and more prepared — we can live again.

The Curse of the Mario

Game 6 of the 1986 World Series recreated on Nintendo's RBI Baseball, complete with Vin Scully's call

Pet Sounds

A dog of a protest at Rutgers and a lower, doggier form of education in Woodbridge.

Elections, Corrections, and Award Selections

Questions to ponder this week while reading The Home News Tribune:

If you hold board of education elections and no one comes, do taxes still go up? How much is an hour in a cage worth to aid sexual abuse victims? And does Middlesex County's Teacher of the Year have the right stuff to beat down the competition for the state crown or will she suffer in the swimsuit competition?

1994: Seems like an awfully long time ago...

Just Say No To Self Googling

Yes, dedicated readers of this blog might recognize most of my latest column. But understand I'm doing my best to spread the wealth to 60,000 Central Jerseyans.

And in unrelated news, Highland Park suspends their indicted tax collector. Only took them six days.

Why We Fight

Or at least: Why We Won't Be Leaving Afghanistan Anytime Soon

Thieving and Grieving

The Highland Park tax collector is indicted in case of $400,000 in missing tax receipts. An East Brunswick defense lawyer pleads guilty to theft for accepting money for services he never rendered.

And a Franklin woman is laid to rest after a fire in her home killed her and a volunteer firefighter.

Shooting Yourself In The Foot...Literally

I can't believe I've never seen this video before.

DEA Agent Lee Paige, 45, gives a gun demonstration to a Florida youth group, bragging he's the only one in the room professional enough to carry his Glock .40 gun. Which he then accidently fires into his foot.

Hilarious!

And now he's suing the government for distributing the video and making him a laughingstock. Buddy, you did this one all by yourself.

Huckster in Chief

I've been planning for weeks to write a simple, paint-by-numbers blog to explain to almost anyone how we have a dangerously incompetent president in the White House. Fuck that.

If you voted for Bush in 2004, watch this video clip and explain to me why this man should be leading this country. No space limitations on your response. Feel free to use big words.

Law and Odor

A murder trial begins in New Brunswick. And based one attorney's massive quantity of cologne, it's gonna be a stinky one.

The Last Stick

Ever wonder if someone could screw up the $100 question on Who Wants to Be a Millionaire? Meet the worst. Contestant. Ever.

Gwyneth Pharoah: Your son shall not eat the Apple in the Garden of Coldplay

Let My Baby Go

Gwyneth Paltrow and Chris Martin gave birth to a baby boy over the weekend. To make up for their firstborn daughter's name, Apple, they named him Moses.

Because it is not at all presumptuous to name your children after the great heroes of the bible. (There is a reason so much of Mexico and South America is named Jesus and that reason is stupidity and wishful thinking).

I will name my son Rubik, after humanity's great puzzle.

Stealing Bread From The Mouths of Decadence

Rutgers kids paint things to feed people and keep Zimbabwean woman from selling their bodies. Make sense? Only in New Brunswick kids, only in New Brunswick.

A 60th Birthday Gift Only a Mother (Mine) Could Love

My mom turns 60 tomorrow, and you can see her gift here.

And here you can read my 27th story on the progress of Route 18. My mom is older, though it doesn't seem that way.

Y? Because I Say So

The YM-YWHA of Highland Park proposes a 12-story high-rise condo to pay for their new $8 million building. Wondering how that'll play in this little town? Wonder no more.

Oops, I Sculpted Again

A pro-life monument to birth in Brooklyn features a nude Britney Spears on a bearskin rug while giving birth to her firstborn.

Is there anything I could say here funnier than that sentence?

Super Payouts, Chilean Tragedy and Auto Parts Co. Bankruptcy

A trio of the seven stories I cranked out in a busy week in Joisey. "I am such a stud," she says mockingly.

New Brunswick Board of Education defends their superintendent's golden parachute, not the golden rule.

Monroe mourns for the 10 people whose bus flipped off a mountain in Chile.

And Delphi workers wait for the ax to fall and maybe deliver some cash on the way.

Hockey's "Doc" Swats, Slaps, Nubs and Drubs the Competition

This week's column: a repurposing of my tribute to Devils TV announcer Mike Emrick. With another crappy headline written by someone without any flair for the task and (apparently) the inability to take my suggestions without feeling slighted.

Falafel House

The best argument every written for the in-depth study of that peculiar cable animal in its habitat: Bill O'Reilly.

Highlights:

"Back in the classical period, liberal media-watchers did a brisk trade in pointing out that Fox News was not actually “Fair & Balanced,” as its slogan claimed. That was not an earth-shattering revelation; “Fair & Balanced” had always been a code whose meaning—here’s news that gives you the world as you already see it—was perfectly understood by the Fox audience...

Mainly, O’Reilly, like every political talk-show host with a big following, is a populist, who, in his beyond-irony way, is a rich, middle-aged white guy aligned with the ruling party, and who has the guts to stand up to the élitists who run (but also hate) this country. To say that that doesn’t make any sense is to deny oneself the pleasure that a close study of O’Reilly affords...

O’Reilly begins each program with an editorial called “Talking Points Memo,” which is often about the news of the day. When the subject is the Bush Administration, O’Reilly is supportive, if not in the respectful manner of most of Fox’s personalities. He seems like a guy who was initially skeptical but had a few candid, head-clearing conversations with people in the Administration and eventually came around....

O’Reilly is an amazingly nimble talent, and part of his skill is how persuasively he communicates that he is completely uncensored and incapable of guile or calculation."

All this war needs is a little more spirit! Who's with me?

Detachable Penis

Some John Wayne Bobbit/ King Missile fan threw his severed penis at police during a rampage in Chicago.

Stupid prick.

Happy Anniversary, Iraq War

Three years, 2,300 U.S. soldiers killed, 17,000 wounded. Maybe 50,000, 75,000 or more Iraqis killed. One stupid, stupid, dangerous president in a bubble surrounded by incompetent boobs.

The people speak.

What if what you do to survive
Kills the things you love
Fear's a powerful thing, baby
It can turn your heart black you can trust
It'll take your God filled soul
And fill it with devils and dust

--B. Springsteen

Over the River and Through the Woods of State Education Aid

Stories about fish spawning and yawning budget gaps. Don't all click at once.

The Rock And Roll Hall of Lame

It's time to shut the doors to The Rock And Roll Hall of Fame.

Five acts might have been inducted last night, but I see where this thing is heading and it's time to pack up the stratocasters and coke and call it a day.

The Hall's first inductees in 1986:

Chuck Berry
James Brown
Ray Charles
Sam Cooke
Fats Domino
The Everly Brothers
Buddy Holly
Jerry Lee Lewis
Elvis Presley

Last night's class:

Black Sabbath
Blondie
Miles Davis
Lynyrd Skynyrd
Sex Pistols

Granted, there was bound to be some fall-off over the years from Chuck Berry and Elvis. But landing on Blondie is kind of like, I don't know, landing in Blondie I suppose.

Black Sabbath is worthy, for sure, blazing the way for an entire new and pathetic genre of poofy-hair Satanic metal.

And Lynyrd Skynyrd sure could make a cliche interesting, couldn't they? Easily the best band to die in a plane crash since The Big Bopper.

The Sex Pistols might as well be celebrated for their longevity. I mean, if we can't honor a group designed to implode in a matter of months, when why even bother calling ourselves rockers?

Now tell me who is left to induct? In the Hall's first years, it was almost a race to include every legend without whom music would never have been the same: The Coasters, Eddie Cochran, Bo Diddley, Aretha Franklin, Marvin Gaye, Bill Haley, B. B. King, Ricky Nelson, Roy Orbison, Carl Perkins, Smokey Robinson, Big Joe Turner, Muddy Waters, Jackie Wilson, The Beach Boys, The Beatles, The Drifters, Bob Dylan, The Supremes.

I mean, shit. It took four years to induct The Rolling Stones.

But now these icons are sharing space with unspectacular folks like Jackson Browne, Dusty Springfield, and Percy Sledge. I mean, Jackson Browne is a nice, introspective, unoffensive singer-songwriter. Percy Sledge did "When a Man Loves a Woman" and...um...er, eh, ok.

What's gonna happen in five or 10 years. Does Motley Crue get in? Mettalica, for sure. Will rap be considered Rock and Roll? Miles Davis was inducted last night. So Run DMC should make it. Then what? The Sugar Hill Gang? The Beastie Boys? Jay Z? Madonna is a ringer, but will Cindi Lauper make the cut? Is she any less worthy than Blondie and her proto-punk new wave thing?

Point is, this place has become diluted by mediocrity and acts with a collection of songs instead of a career. It's become poluted by morphing genres and self-congratulatory mutual masturbation. Rock shouldn't be so inclusive. And an institution like the Hall should be run by rock snobs anyway.

If everyone gets in, who's gonna clean up the jizz stains after the party?

For that job, my vote's for Lynyrd Skynyrd.

Big Bucks, No Whammies, No Whammies...D'oh!

This headline is in the worst taste ever. Please ignore.

"Press Your Luck" gameshow host Peter Tomarken died yesterday when the plane he was piloting crashed near Los Angeles. Tomarken, his wife and two others were killed when they volunteered to fly a medical patient from San Diego to L.A.

The Whammy thinks he's great, the Whammy thinks he's nice,but inside that body, he's got a heart of ice. ---Terry & Kevin Seagal, Carmel, IN

Defiled and Lazy Guy

One of the horrors of writing for a newspaper is when a pathetic copyeditor slaps a wildly lame headline on your story. It's even worse when you've been recruited to write neutered personal columns that run with your picture.

This headline somehow evokes both Steve Martin's doofus hipster and Joe Piscapo's Jersey Guy characters from SNL. Not flattering. Humiliating, actually. But some decent writing for sure, that might look familiar to fans of my Thailand journal.

Homer Sapiens

By popular (Perl) demand, here's that live-action Simpsons intro. A little creepy if you ask me.

Even more peculiar: this home in Las Vegas that bears an uncanny resemblance to one in Springfield, State Unknown.

S(h)ave Douglass College

Rutgers President Richard L. McCormick recommends the all-women Douglass College remain a four-year women's residential college. Women -- many of whom shave -- rejoice.

Except this group, who apparently didn't get the memo (about rejoicing, not personal hygeine. Near as I could tell).

The Sports Guy and The Tipping Point Guy

ESPN's Bill Simmons emails with The New Yorker's Malcolm Gladwell -- chatting about effort vs. talent, learning about sports by reading Sports Illustrated in rural Canada, and the enigma of Jake Plummer. It's a lot more interesting than it has any right to be.

Oscar The Grouch

Tonight is the night the stars come out on the red carpet and Star Jones's residual fat rolls come out of her tightly constructed cow dress while I do my best to pick the winners and try not to feel gay because I enjoy this all so much.

Some folks have accused me of being secretly ashamed of my interest in Oscar night while pretending not to care. The truth is that I certainly don't care in the sense that I have no stake in the proceedings. And I'm not ashamed to say that I've watched just about every Oscar telecast for the past 20 or so years. I'm not alone, you know. As a self-designated arbiter of taste and a pop-culture war chicken hawk, when America watches something, I'm watching America.

The outcome of the evening means tiddly squat to me, simply because the Motion Picture Academy of Arts and Sciences' voting record is about as good as the Palestinian people's. Or the American people's, for that matter.

Of course, there's the perpetual snubbing of Alfred Hitchcock and Martin Scorsese. Not like these two deserve any sort of recognition for, I don't know, the best films of their generations.

And I think Roger Ebert pointed out the beautiful irony that this year the Academy will honor Robert Altman for his lifetime achievement after ignoring him for his lifetime.

In recent years, you don't need to look much further than Ordinary People beating out Raging Bull for Best Picture in 1980 or the 1990 travesty of Dances With Wolves beating out Goodfellas. Don't even get me started on Forrest Gump over Pulp Fiction and The Shawshank Redemption in 1994.

Ok. You got me started. Forrest Fucking Gump? Granted, I like this movie when I first saw it. It was exceptionally well crafted, and I was even able to get past some of Tom Hanks' acting ticks to be truly moved by his performance. But 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?

Forrest Gump is stubborn in its insistence to avoid any message or even the thinnest of themes throughout. It's like crying at a funeral for an advertising campaign character.

Anyway, Gump is not alone. Here are some other high crimes and Oscar snubs:

• 1941: How Green Was My Valley beat out Citizen Kane. Any idea which one has stood the test of time better?
• 1979: Kramer Vs. Kramer beat out Apocalypse Now and an un-nominated Manhattan
• 1983: Terms of Endearment beat out The Right Stuff
• 1992: Al Pacino won Best Actor for Scent of a Woman. After years of playing actual, layered human beings, he takes home the trophy for playing some absurd blind curmudgeon by yelling non-sequiters braying like a syphilitic gorilla. Hoo-ha!
• 2001: Ron Howard won Best Director and Best Film for A Beautiful Mind against anything other than this criminal manipulation of the audience and facts in service of a hyped-up shit sandwich of a movie

RIP Mr. Furley: Wear your garish neckerchiefs in that big Regal Beagle in the sky

Singing Competition and Stinging Condemnation

An all-girl group practices for tomorrow's International Championship of Collegiate A Capella semifinals at Rutgers. I maintain my journalistic decorum.

And New Brunswick moves closer to booting private property owners off their property to make way for mostly private development. Yay eminent domain!

It's Miller Time

Did the Olympics produce a bigger ass than Bode Miller? Check out his comments after going 0-for the Olympics and you be the judge:

• “It does matter that it’s the Olympics. I just did it my way. I’m not a martyr, and I’m not a do-gooder. I just want to go out and rock. And man, I rocked here.”
• “The same people who recognize I came out with no medals should recognize I could have won three.”
• “Me, it’s been an awesome two weeks. I got to party and socialize at an Olympic level.”

McEarth: Over 6.5 Billion Served

At 7:16 PM EST today, the earth's population will hit 6.5 billion people. This is about double the size it was in 1960, nearly four times the size in 1900, and it will hit 7 billion in about six years.

I'd like to buy them all a Coke. Should cost me only $6.5 billion if I use the machine at work.

Highland Snark

Highland Park embarks on their $21.7 million schools construction project. Yay, Highland Park.

Oh, no: Why do I hate thee?

The Olympic Shroud of Turin

Some stray thoughts on the Olympics as they pass quickly, just within my peripheral vision:

• Best named Olympian: Austrian downhill gold-medalist Michaela Dorfmeister. Seriously. Dorfmeister. Kinda like Fred "The Dorf" Dorman from that scene in Fletch. Or something from a Rob Schneider sketch. Honorable mention: Finland's ski-jumper Matti Hautamaeki.
• Worst named Olympian: Apolo Anton Ohno. Never liked his name, certainly despise his wispy landing-strip facial fuzz and his general attitude. Can't put my finger on it, but if you look closely enough at the guy there surely is something worth despising.
• Curling: Not a sport
• Ice Dancing: Gay
• Two-Man Luge: Gay
• Men's Figure Skating: Are you kidding?
• Lindsey Jacobellis: Who told all these kids the Olympics were all about goofy fun and style? What's wrong with these X-Games rejects? Bode Miller (but perhaps not his sponsor Nike) was all shrugs and no-big-deals after his no-show in Turin. They're just there "to have a good time" and work on inscrutable "personal goals" when everyone else seems to, you know, go for the gold and shit. Jacobellis got carried away down the home stretch of a sure gold medal when she caught some rad air and pulled a backside method, caught a gnarly edge and tumbled off the course for a silver. (Don't even get me started on the stupid names for snowboarding moves or the athletes' privileged, free-spirited shredder lifestyles.) "It's just a race," she said Saturday. "I know it's the Olympics and everyone's trying to get a reaction out of me. I made a mistake. It happens. I was very happy to still come out with a medal after making such a goof." No, honey. It's not just a race. It's an Olympic gold-medal race. Come to win, beat the commies, the nazis and the French and wave that flag. Stupid X-Gamers.
• Bryant Gumbel caught some heat for this editorial bit at the end of a recent "Real Sports" on HBO (emphasis added):

"And finally tonight, the Winter Games. Count me among those that don't like 'em and won't watch 'em. In fact, I figure when Thomas Paine said, "These are the times that try men's souls," he must have been talking about the start of another Winter Olympics.

Because they are so trying, maybe over the next three weeks we should all try too. Like try not to be incredulous when someone tries to link these games to those of the ancient Greeks who never heard of skating or skiing.

So try not to laugh when someone says these are the world's greatest athletes, despite a paucity of blacks that makes the Winter Games look like a GOP convention.

Try not to point out that something's not really a sport if a pseudo-athlete waits in what's called a 'kiss and cry area' while some panel of subjective judges decides who won.

And try to blot out all logic when announcers and sports writers pretend to care about the luge, the skeleton, the biathlon, and all those other events they don't understand and totally ignore for all but three weeks every four years.

Face it, these Olympics are little more than a marketing plan to fill space and sell time during the dreary days of February. So, if only to hasten the arrival of the day they're done, and we can move on to March Madness, for God's sake, let the Games begin."

Critics complain that a white man making similar comments about black athletes would be quickly and loudly fired. Or that you could just as illogically complain about the lack of white people on a basketball court or winning track & field medals in the Summer Olympics.

But all this does is exemplify the touchiness of our culture when anyone mentions race. Though Gumbel is an insufferable, priggish ass who allows his fame to gain him entry to exclusive golf clubs around the world, he is still (all evidence to the contrary) a black man. And he has a right to prefer watching people of his ethnicity (or gender or prissy speaking style) participate in sports.

No white hurdler has been exluded from participating in the Olympics because of his race. Neither has any black ski jumper. But the latter example belies the root causes of economic and social disparity that so often accompany race in this country. Black folks in the city just don't have the time, money or inclination to spend their lives perfecting their slalom skiing cred.

This is not by design. It's just how things are. And Gumbel's comments weren't necessarily intended as a social critique. He was expressing his preference. Much like the judges scoring Johnny Weir's flamboyant swan outfit or the backside method air of privileged shredder snowboard chicks.

As for me, I prefer a track, a gun and a stopwatch.

Harold and Kumar Go to South Plainfield

Cheap dates line up for a candlelight Valentine's Day dinner at White Castle in South Plainfield. Less expensive than a heart-shaped tin of melty chocolates, and looks about the same when you're finally finished with it.

Ew.

Happy Hallmark Day

Give that special someone something she will most certainly not appreciate, either these Star Wars themed cards from somethingawful.com or these from i-mockery.com. RIP Phil "Unlce Owen" Brown.

Home News Special Delivery

Tales from Middlesex County told by your friendly neighborhood blogger in old-fashioned print last week include:

1. A New Brunswick ESL program for families
2. The New Brunswick mayor's state of the city address (replete with cooking analogies as though written for a middle school student council secretary candidate's campaign)
3. A non-update on the missing $400,000 in Highland Park tax receipts
4. The restart of the county's Raritan River dredging project
5. The hopeful start of a youth lacrosse program in Monroe

Coming this week: a Rutgers evolution symposium! More dredging! Stories about snow! Gratuitous exclamation points!

What a Dick!

Vice President Dick Cheney shot his friend while quail hunting this weekend. His friend should have known better than to wear a towel over his head while quail hunting with the vice president.

Best quote from an eye witness:

"Fortunately, the vice president has got a lot of medical people around him and so they were right there and probably more cautious than we would have been," she said. "The vice president has got an ambulance on call, so the ambulance came."

Of course it's the size of the Dick that matters

Islamic Family Circus

Some more offensive comics from Cracked

Hey, Crazy Muslims Angry Over Cartoons: Here's the Hitch

All you need to read about the uproar over those Danish anti-Muslim cartoons can be found in this brilliant piece by Christopher Hitchens on Slate.

Damn, I hate when I agree with that guy.

Whopper XL

I know I'm a little late to comment on the Super Bowl, so I'll dispense with any talk of the poorly played game, questionable officiating and Jerome "I'm from Detroit with a nickname playing off the size of my ass" Bettis.

What struck me were all those stylish black & white still photos of the players posing with the Lombardi Trophy. If I were a player before the game you couldn't pay me enough to even touch that thing. In hockey, some players wouldn't even dare look at the Stanley Cup before earning the right to drink from it the hard way. Instead, we get shots of Mike Holmgren and Matt Hasselback cradling it like a baby and jutting it into the air with their best Belichick/Brady impression. Think any of those Seattle guys have those pics stuck on their refrigerators at home?

Think-Of-Something-To-Do-And-See-That-Task-To-Completion!!!!! (copyright David Cross)

Tool Time in Jersey

Tim Allen is a convicted drug dealer and Larry The Cable Guy is a private school grad born in Nebraska.

What does this have to do with anything? Nothing, really. But both were on my mind when writing this story about a home improvement expo yesterday in Somerset. Kept intact by an angelic editor.

100 Reasons I Don't Read Many Novels

Because even intellectuals and dilettantes love lists, here's the American Book Review's list of the 100 Best First Lines for Novels.


Personally, I prefer these. All of them written by yours truly (that's me) without the subsequent novels. But this way, you can fill in the rest on your own.

Democracy For Dummies

Hamas: No Pieces of a Child Left Behind After We Teach Him To Explode

Pushing The Envelope, Please

A Newsweek roundtable interview with directors Steven Spielberg, George Clooney, Ang Lee, Paul Haggis and Bennett Miller turns out far more funny and entertaining than anything I've grown to expect from Newsweek. Even better in print than listening to it live might have been.

Screw Carrie Bradshaw

Finally, the New York Post has hired someone worth reading on occasion. This story by Mandy Stadtmiller (a brilliant blogger as well) investigates those micro-moments when the perfect date suddenly shifts into a wall. (requires that evil NY Post registration)

Super Bowl One-Size-Fits-All

It's one week until Super Bowl XL, which might not even suck, and I'm wondering...when did Cracked get this funny?

Chinese Food For Thought

Hmm. Google Image Search results for "Tianamen Square"

Google Image Search results for "Tianamen Square" in China.

Long live the democracy of the internet!

White Chocolate

Apparently, Ray Nagin will have to alter his thinking about the new New Orleans.

Bowling For Haircuts

Oh, Boy: It seems Newsweek has uncovered the growing tragedy of bad haircuts among our nation's children. So sad, those poor, scowling, bowl-cut boys.

Rutgers Numb3rs

A new law forces Rutgers to assign new ID numbers instead of using student Social Security numbers. No word on how this will affect student fake IDs.

And the worst name for a TV show in 2005? "Numb3rs?" Are you kidding me?

50 Most Loathesome People in America

The Beast runs it's annual "50 Most Loathesome People in America, 2005" and I have a hard time disagreeing.

Surely Donavan McNabb doesn't belong in a year in which one of his teammates displayed some of the most selfish and self-defeating behavior ever in the NFL (and that's quite an achievement). I'm also not sure what's so crazy about Thomas Friedman's take on globalization.

And as Andrew Sullivan points out, Pat Robertson shouldn't be forced to apologize for his beliefs, even if they involve the eventual destruction of all Jews when the rapture comes. They're his beliefs, after all. The real dolts are the millions of people who listen to him.

And what? No Donald Rumsfeld? I suppose you could fill an entire list with Bush cronies. But here's one responsible for the incompetent prosecution of a war and the hubris to accept no blame for anything.

Otherwise, what we've got here are 47 truly loathsome people. Proof of the rotting of Middle America.

The W Guide to the Galaxy

Bush playing Zork, a role-playing game from the early days of computing. Brilliant.

Whatchoo Gonna Do When They Come For You

New Brunswick community members pack a City Council meeting to complain about police brutality and insist drug dealers and attempted murderers are people, too. And actually, I believe them.

Friday, the County Prosecutor got involved.

Also, the city alots $1.6 million to help rehab homes.

Tattle-Tale Parrots and Chinese Diplomacy

This CNN story about a parrot who broke up a British couple reads like something from The Onion. Poor Ziggy.

And Chinese immigrant Fuk King Kwok decides to change his name while waiting for his driver's license to print.

A Rose By Any Other Team

A USC cheerleader gets a little confused between Trojans and Longhorns in the Rose Bowl. And as the ensuing photos show, this wasn't her first faux pas.

The Simpsomaker

Make your own Simpsons character. Then write a script better than anything they've done in the last 7 years.

24 Ways to Furrow Your Brow

I've watched bits and pieces of the previous five seasons of "24," and after this year's two-night, four-hour season premiere I think we can safely come to a few conclusions.

1. Terrorists on this show have never met a convoluted plan they didn't like. Shoot down Air Force 1 on the off-chance you can retrieve the nuclear "football" in the wreckage? Kidnap the Secretary of State as a distraction? Take an airport terminal hostage to blackmail the president into bailing on an anti-terrorist accord with Russia as a smokescreen to steal some nerve gas? Why not? We've got 24 hours of programming to fill.

2. Suspense can be manufactured out of any contrivance. Only in the world of "24" does the orchestration of a presidential treaty-signing photo-op take priority over a hostage situation in a Los Angeles Airport. Think it might be a good idea to delay this thing for, oh..I don't know...at least four or five minutes? Just, you know, out of curiosity to see if Americans are being slaughtered on live television. Because people are gonna tune in to that photo op for sure.

3. Jack Bauer is one bad-ass muthafucker.

4. And most importantly, I've learned this: Mary Lynn Rajskub is the worst actress ever. Anywhere. She has been fine -- endearing even -- playing bit parts on "Mr. Show" and "The Larry Sanders Show." But her Cloe O'Brien on "24" only knows one facial expression: constipated pouty grimmace. You know, that face you make when you've spent 45 minutes on the shitter but nothing comes out other than a few puffs of gas and a small pellet of poo. Hard to believe smart people thought it might be gripping to watch her frown and type while talking on a phone for an entire season. Popping out poo pellets sounds more enticing to me.

Generation Gap

Meet John Heldrich: The man, the myth, the hotel and school of workforce development under construction in downtown New Brunswick. I'd recommend paying more attention to the man, though.

And some college kids bitch about the tardy ameneties at their high-priced dorm. Gimme my ice cream and coffee along with my shelter.

Intelligent Design, eh?

What's 1994 + 54?

It was hard to notice based on the coverage in the papers, but apparently they canonized St. Messier last night at Madison Square Garden.

As a Devils fan, you might think I'm bitter toward that grinning, blubbering Cro-Magnon. But actually, I'm really grateful for his 1994 Eastern Conference Finals defeat of New Jersey. Sure, supposedly guaranteeing a Game 6 victory might be considered gauche in a town where a fella by the name of Joe Willy did something similar 25 years earlier to revolutionize his sport. But mostly, he just set the Devils on a decade of dominance that has yet to see the Rangers even return to the playoffs. Even if this year's standings seem to indicate a turnaround.

Mostly, I'm feeling bad for Bob Kabel, who wore Messier's now-retired number 11 for a portion of his 48 game career in 1959-60. Sorry, Bobby. We hardly knew ye.

The House-Shaking Sound of Silence

People with giant construction drills outside their windows at 5 in the morning gripe to a reporter. Who woulda thunk it'd be so loud to create a sound barrier?

Article #7 in an Endless Saga of Urban Planning

Oh, New Brunswick. Your redevelopment plan is so sexy. Talk dirty to me about blight and high-density mixed-use buildings.

Body Blow

An ingenius live recreation of Mike Tyson's Punch-Out for Nintendo. Living proof that a man named Glass Joe should never pursue a boxing career.

Culture Wars: The Phantom Menace

So, does anyone know the score of our national culture war?

I imagine you've heard about this thing. Open hostilities between left and right with the center getting smooshed via collateral damage. Something about abortionists trying to grinch Christmas away from Jesus freaks and giving Santa Claus a faggot makeover so he can screw Jake Gyllenhaal before attending a NASCAR event.

Or some such thing.

If you listen to talk radio or cable news, you might get the impression this country is about as divided as those election maps. And you might be right. I don't have the statistics to back up any theories as to what the majority of Americans think about anything. I mean, most Americans do not believe in evolution. What good is a poll if it only confirms your low opinion of Americans? These are the same people that made Tim Allen's "Home Improvement" the number one show year after year.

No, I'm not gonna try and disprove the existence of these culture wars. They are too damn entertaining.

Who doesn't enjoy watching Letterman telling Bill O'Reilly that 60 percent of what he's says is crap. Of course, Letterman didn't have any proper ammunition to debate O'Reilly's hysterical rantings of supposed anti-Christmas evidence (what would O'Reilly do, by the way, if the pope decided to outlaw Santa Claus in response to the anti-Christian, commercial, pagan invention he is?). Which is the way it should be. People who scream for attention at the top of their lungs and can't be ignored should at least be laughed at. Certainly someone with such peculiar sexual peccadilloes.

Since I've left the city and returned to an automotive existence, I've rediscovered radio (I know, I know, just in time for Howard Stern to bolt for space). NPR is nice and educational. But then so is 770 AM.

Last week, Rush Limbaugh was going off about the something he saw in the DVD extras of "March of the Penguins." Apparently, the tree-hugging, blame-America-first, blame-humans-for-global-warming filmmakers didn't have the humanistic chutzpah to assist baby penguins that had fallen into a three-foot crevasse. How could these hypocrites hide behind their impartial, documentarian roles instead of saving these poor creatures? How could they sit and watch these animals get torn apart by sea lions?

If you're like me when faced with such inanity, you might start shouting back at the radio. Something like: Hey, moron! This is what happens in nature. These people went there precisely so they could capture the hard life of these amazing birds. The filmmakers are no more cruel for their inaction than nature for eventually killing off all of what it creates.

But then you'd be falling into one of the traps which are these shows reason for existing.

At one point in the Howard Stern bio-pic "Private Parts," a station functionary delivers the latest ratings. People are tuning in record numbers to Stern's controversial show. In response to a question asking why they listen, Stern-lovers say they want to hear what he's going to say next. Stern-haters, who listen twice as long, answer the same question with the same answer.

For much of this country, being infuriated is addictive.

Which might explain some of this media-driven "culture wars" talk. For me, like most of what goes on in this country, I find it entertaining. I mean, can you really take this stuff seriously?

There's a guy on 770 at nights, Mark Levin, who makes Rush seem like a one of those toy monkeys with the cymbals banging together. His voice actually sounds a little like those cymbals. And he deigns takes calls from "libs," as he calls them. But you'll notice that not one of the "libs" he speaks with can hardly put together two sentences, much less a cogent argument. Last week, he had on a guy he rightly suspected was drunk. And then he skewered the guy for it. As if his own producers weren't screening these tomato cans for him to squeeze into sauce.

You can poke fun at me for spending valuable time with some of the folks responsible for this recent divisiveness. My favorite part is when a guy like Limbaugh or Hannity belittle "the media" as if they aren't a HUGE part of it.

But whether this divide is real or perceived, there is value in checking in with what so much of this country uses to check themselves. And laugh at them. Because arguing can be so cruel, especially in a time of war.

Hash (But Not the Good Kind)

Runners run slowly and with beers in Edison hash. And $400,000 missing from Highland Park's tax receipts. If you need me, I'll be in a country with no extradition treaty...

New Year, Old Problems

Children in crisis helped by a new county program, Katrina evacuees celebrate the new year in New Jersey and New Brunswick Delphi workers worry about their jobs.