Ready Bare Chested

My Olympic hangover

2008-08-24T10:29:00.000-07:00

21 things I will miss most about the 2008 Summer Olympics in Beijing.

1. I will miss not caring about global warming or Tibetan monks;

2. I will miss falsely believing that oil prices are falling because the dollar is growing stronger and not because China sharply curbed its energy use to cut Beijing's suffocating smog;

3. I will miss Shawn Johnson and that toothy grin;

4. I will miss that for one week the world's biggest controversy was whether or not China's gymnasts were really 16-years-old (when even a blind person could tell they were not);

5. I will miss Bela Karoli;

6. And Bob Costas;

7. I will miss switching between international athletic competition on NBC and real life Red Dawn in the Republic of Georgia on CNN;

8. I will miss not caring about Iraq;

9. I will miss being able to ignore both John McCain and Barack Obama;

10. I will miss watching the Jamaican runners and wondering when the International Olympic Committee will strip them of their medals due to all the marijuana in their systems;

11. I will miss Michael Phelps not fading into obscurity after he takes a job as a salesman;

12. I will miss the constant images of Mark Spitz's moustache;

13. I will miss reading about the Olympians and their condom supply;

14. I will miss forgetting that Kobe Bryant is a piece of shit who (allegedly) raped a woman;

15. I will miss marveling at the architecture of the Olympic facilities;

16. I will miss seeing the president make an ass of himself;

17. I will miss the moments before horror gripped me when I realized our president is an even bigger ass than I thought he was after seven years of miserable failures and fuckups;

18. I will miss the images of Chairman Mao and the recognition, but ultimate dismal of, his butcherous "cultural revolution;

19. I will miss the sneaking suspicion that Beijing 2008 is Berlin 1936;

20. I will miss blaming the judges;

21. I will miss thinking I understand syncronized diving or the scoring system in boxing or the deductions on the beam or hand ball or ...

The most terrifying thing you will ever read

2008-07-10T18:37:00.000-07:00

The very existence of The Bulgarian terrifies me.

I have never met this man, this man from Bulgaria—The Bulgarian; but he’s out there, waiting for me, waiting to tell me when I will die.

The Bulgarian is a doctor, an MD licensed in homeopathic Eastern medicines. I don't know what he looks like, though I imagine The Bulgarian is an inch or two shorter than he probably should be. Slightly hunched. Facial hair that clings loosely to his face. Big nose. A 42-year-old who looks 55. He probably smells foreign and medicinal.

If you are dying he will know simply by taking your pulse.

My friend Zora, a Serb, told me about The Bulgarian. Her Serbian friends, all gypsies at heart—although she'd curse me for saying so because Serbians are a kind of people who still fear the mystic wiles of gypsies—go to The Bulgarian.

He discovered a heart problem in one young woman. He told another young woman that she has done irreversible damage to herself. The Bulgarian told Zora her insides were infected by a virus; one traditional MDs claimed they'd cured with antibiotics.

These diagnoses were made without invasive probing, but merely a superficial check of the pulse or pupils, or with what I'm told is his specialty, an ultrasound of the liver.

"The first time I saw him," Zora told me, "he immediately took my pulse and then, after a minute or two, slowly shook his head. He looked disappointed and said to me, ‘You've had coffee today,' and I did have coffee that day, but here's the thing,” she continued, “like three-and-a-half hours before I saw him.”

The Bulgarian looked at her pupils, took an ultrasound of her liver and then ordered her to stop taking the few remaining antibiotic pills her doctors said cured the virus inside her. Instead, he prescribed a barrage of herbs and odd-tasting pills and told her no caffeine or alcohol.

She hasn't had a drop of coffee—not even a Diet Coke—or ingested any alcohol.

I’ve imagined my appointment with The Bulgarian. Thinking about it keeps me up at night. He takes my pulse, stares into my eyes for a minute or so and casually turns around and walks to his desk. He removes his glasses, leans over my chart and casually writes something.

Then The Bulgarian turns around and says, “You are dying.”

Perhaps he then reassures me, says something enigmatic like, "Then again, we are all dying, aren't we?"

Or, more likely, he says something cold—“But life is meaningless, no?”—or something Eastern Bloc-ish: “Your life belongs to the state anyway.”

He is out there. And that terrifies.

Why we need a hero--and another Mad Max movie

2008-06-14T09:26:00.000-07:00

I am the Nightrider. I'm a fuel injected suicide machine. I am the rocker, I am the roller, I am the out-of-controller!
--from the 1980 classic, Mad Max

What do the 1980 classic Mad Max and Afghanistan have in common? That country, like the lawless Australian countryside in Mad Max, is apparently infested with blood thirsty motorcycle gangs.

The other night 30 men on motorcycles raided a prison in Afghanistan's southern city of Kandahar, destroying the prison's mud walls, killing guards and freeing 1,200 prisoners. Set loose in the brazen attack were at least 350 Taliban members.

Do you remember Mad Max? It's a brilliant film. Shot in late 1970s Australia on a budget of $100,000 Australian Dollars, the movie went on to gross over $100 million internationally.

It also spawned one decent sequel, Road Warrior, and an awful followup, Mad Max Beyond Thunderdome. The latter perhaps best known for its soundtrack that included Tina Turner's "I Need a Hero."

But it's the purity of Mad Max that makes it a classic. Gibson's Max, a young highway patrolman dressed head-to-toe in leather, defends the Australian countryside against a marauding gang of some 30 psychotic killers on motorcycles led by an oddly feminine maniac named Nightrider (note: this predates the David Hasselhof TV show, "Night Rider").

(SPOILER ALERT!)

Things turn personal and exceptionally nasty for Max when they run over his wife and newborn with their motorcycles.

And who doesn't like a good revenge movie, as Max methodically hunts down every last one of the men responsible for the killing? In the climactic scene, Max finds the remaining evildoer lying injured besides the burning wreckage of a truck. That trunk is, of course, dripping gasoline, the gasoline oozing ever closer to an open flame rigged by Max. (Read: The truck's about to explode.)

The cornered bad guy surrenders, pleads for mercy and insists he had nothing to do with the grizzly murder of Max's kin. Ignoring his pleas, Max handcuffs the guy to the wreckage, drops a hacksaw next to him and utters one of the greatest movie lines ever:

"The chain in those handcuffs is high-tensile steel. It'd take you ten minutes to hack through it with this. Now, if you're lucky, you could hack through your ankle in five minutes. Go."

Max turns his back and walks away--vindicated!

Now back to Afghanistan, where the Canadians--yes! Canadians--charged with defending Khandahar need a hero, eh? A leather clad hero no doubt, because what else do you wear when hunting down psychotics?

(Seriously, I think the head-to-toe leather thing is brilliant: tough, durable and sexy--why not?)

In the spirit of Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull, I'm sensing a Mad Max reprisal for Gibson. Now just imagine this--it's gold--we'll forget Road Warrior and Thunderdome ever happened, what we have instead is Max, a broken down, hard-drinking chain-smoker, never able to overcome the death of his wife and child.

He drifts to Afghanistan as a mysterious aid-worker, trying desperately to repent for the sins of his past, dressed in loose khaki. And then there's the prison break led by motorcycling terrorists. Cries for help. Lucid flashbacks to his days as a young patrolman and, of course, the remembrance of his wife and child.

Amid the ashes of his personal hell arises Max, head-to-toe in black leather, ready to track down the Taliban thugs one by one.

Here's the final scene: The leader of the gang, adept at recruiting impressionable young men as suicide bombers, is nabbed by Max in the wilds of remote Afghanistan. Max straps a suicide bomber vest to the bad guy, handcuffs him to the bumper of a car and sets a timer on the vest. And here's the final line:

"There's ten pounds of dynamite strapped to your chest. The chain in those handcuffs is high-tensile steel. It'd take you ten minutes to hack through it with this." Then he chucks the hacksaw a good 20 yards away. "Good luck finding it."

He walks away, vindicated ... until the next movie.

Farewell old friend

2008-04-13T13:38:00.000-07:00

Do you remember the Diner’s Club card? It was the haute credit card—a charge card for the elite jet set.

Possession of the card afforded summers in the south of France, winters in the Alps, autumn picnics with the Kennedys and spring jaunts to places of intrigue.

Out to dinner with a spy? Put it on the Diner’s Club.

Buying candy and baseball cards at Walgreens? Charge the Diner’s Club—or so I thought.

This is what happens when a nine-year-old thinks he has a Diner’s Club card.

A victim of the American 21st century

While it’s still accepted abroad, Diner’s Club—the first modern credit card—is a relic in the States. Call it a victim of Chile’s restaurants and The Gap; call it an embattled friend of the surviving Hapsburg nephews—just don’t expect that Kohl’s clerk to know what the hell it is.

On Monday, Diner’s Club—and everything it represented—suffered a fatal blow when Discover, the McCredit Card given to every college freshman, bought it for $165 million, a mere pittance to its one-time holders.

A boy, his wallet and one obvious misunderstanding

I first used my Diner’s Club card in the late ‘80s; unfortunately, it was denied. Turns out Walgreens doesn’t accept Diner’s Club—especially when it’s a fake one used to fill imitation alligator wallets.

My dad had bought my brother and me wallets. I got the brown one (which I used until I turned 21). I’d heard of parents buying their children wallets and filling it with cash, maybe a crisp $20 bill. My wallet was empty, except for this rectangular piece of paper that said Diner’s Club.

I asked my brother about Diner’s Club and he gave me the scoop: “It’s a credit card,” he said. “You can buy things with it.”

I understood this to mean I was somehow part of an elite club and instead of cash my dad had done me one better—he gave me a credit card. It was even sweeter when I learned my brother’s wallet didn’t have one.

One day I’m at Walgreen’s buying Charleston Chews—two for 89 cents—and a pack of Donruss baseball cards. I thought two dollars would be enough.

It wasn’t. Sales tax had pushed the candy and baseball cards slightly out of my price range.

Instead of putting one of the Charleston Chews away I did what any good American would; I broke out the charge card.

“Okay, here you go,” I said handing the teenage cashier my Diner’s Club card—echoing my dad whenever he presented his Visa.

The clerk didn’t even take the card. He just stared down at me. There was clearly some mistake, I thought. He obviously didn’t know about the Diner’s Club card.

“Here you go,” I repeated. “I’ll just charge it.”

“With what? That?”

“Well sure,” I said waving the card gently. “It’s a Diner’s Club.”

“No, it’s a piece of paper,” he replied.

“Actually, it’s a credit card,” I answered.

“Listen kid, do you have the money or not?”

“No, but I have this,” I said giving the card another wave.

“Then you can’t buy it.”

By now a line of adults had formed behind me. A kindly middle-aged woman looked down at me and then turned to the clerk.

“Here you go,” she said handing the teenage cashier a five dollar bill. He took it and turned to the cash register with a grin. I could hear him chuckle.

“Thanks,” I said with a slight air of condescension. I was confused, but knew this was obviously a mistake.

Afterward, I found my brother at home and told him what happened. He suppressed a laugh and inspected the card.

“You have to call and activate the card,” he mercifully explained. “You can’t just use it.”

“Ohhhh,” I said with feigned understanding.

“I guess you better not use it,” he advised, “and don’t tell dad.”

I followed his advice and stuffed the card into a drawer where it still sits—now worthless thanks to the Discover merger.

Perpetual nausea—the Genesis of my anxiety

2008-02-17T14:24:00.000-08:00

In the third and fourth grades I puked between 300 and 325 time. Only once did something actually come out of my mouth—a concoction of my mother’s meatloaf and TCBY chocolate yogurt. That happened during my Christmas break in the third grade. My parents were out shopping. My brother baby-sat. I watched Clue.

The other 300 or so times were imagined vomits. I was perpetually nauseous for one-and-a-half years—and that worried the hell out me. I feared vomiting in class. I feared enduring the bloated stomach ache, the creeping oral sensation as the food works its way back up your pipes and the inevitability of wet mouth.

Several years ago a doctor told me I have an anxiety disorder. He also said this nausea was an early hallmark of it.

I’m convinced that my dad’s old-school response to this nausea has prevented me from living in my parent’s basement right now.

My nausea usually began around mid-morning. I’d try to fight it off—repeating the mantra my mother assured would prevent me from throwing up. “I’m not gonna throw up. I’m not gonna throw up.” I would whisper. (I still say this when I’m genuinely nauseas, by the way.)

By early afternoon the mantra failed and full panic mode took over. Nervousness swallowed me and I sat there convinced my bologna sandwich and fruit rollup would soon spew from my mouth.

On one afternoon shortly after this condition began, I told my teacher that I felt like I was going to throw up. She sent me to the principal’s office—the school’s triage nursing station—where they promised to call my mom. She would come and pick me up. In less than an hour, I thought, I’d be sitting in front of the television—my safe place—with a bag of chips and a glass bottle of Pepsi.

While the principal’s secretary, also the school nurse, tried to reach my mom I heeded her advice and went to the bathroom. I stood over the urinal spitting and found my nausea had faded.

About 5 minutes later my dad walked into the bathroom. He loomed in his suit and overcoat—his gray hair held firmly in place by the Vitalis hair spray he constantly smelled of. He looked at once concerned and annoyed. His presence surprised me.

The nurse couldn’t reach my mom so they called my dad on his car phone—this was 1989 and my dad’s always enjoyed the best in cellular technology. He was near the school and came to pick me up.

In a concerned voice he asked what was wrong. I told him I felt like I was going to throw up. He was immediately suspicious. “Well what do you want to do?” He asked.

“I dunno. Go home, I guess.”

He paused and considered my suggestion for a moment, then accepted it.

My dad never stayed home from school. His old-school Catholic parents wouldn’t allow it. He was one of those kids who braved school despite 100+ degree fevers. Had he suffered from polio his parents would have no doubt made him limp to school.

If I were only a few years older I would’ve known to hide my excitement that he’d sprung me from school. I would have kept my mouth shut. Instead, during the car ride home I foolishly asked if we could stop at McDonald’s. Any sympathy he had immediately vanished and his half-concern turned completely to annoyance.

When we got home I hit the couch and grabbed the remote. “Oh no you don’t,” he said. “Sick people don’t watch TV, they go to bed.” But I wasn’t tired, I said. I wasn’t even sick anymore, I thought.

“Too bad,” he demurred. “I’m taking a nap and so are you.”

He led me upstairs and saw me into my bedroom. I watched him walk to his bedroom and heard him lay down.

Silence hung heavy in the afternoon air. I imagined all the TV shows I was missing. I imagined the Pepsi and chips downstairs. I imagined the joy I would’ve soon felt had I stayed in school—the joy that the school day was nearly over and I could head home and play outside or watch G.I. Joe.

None of that would happen now. I was confined to bed rest and the warden was not a forgiving man—there would be no time off for good behavior.

I never again went home sick from school and for the next year-a-half nurtured an exquisite nervousness. When the nausea and anxiety finally and inexplicably vanished in the fourth grade I never gave it a second thought, never considered what implications it might have once I reached adolescence and adulthood—that my anxiety would become so much a part of my life that at 27 I would swear it off for Lent—that this Lenten promise would remind me of a bizarre period in my childhood when I was forever nauseous—that had it not been for tough love I would only know my lovely ladyfriend Sally from the TV show Survivor and no doubt spend hours in my parents basement cropping myself into pictures of her and talking endlessly of her hot bikini body on Internet chat rooms with the other poor souls who were never sent to bed, told “sick people don’t watch TV” and showed that the alternative to anxiety was a quiet, lonely life.

All of that said, I still spend a lot of time thinking about Pepsi, chips and TV.

I worry therefore I am

2008-02-06T18:31:00.000-08:00

I've never given something up for Lent. Unlike some in my life who renounce sweets or cigars or swearing, I find the whole thing a tad self-righteous and wholly self-serving ... until now, that is. For the first time in my life I've given something up for Lent: worrying.

Talk about self-serving, right? Giving up worrying, well shit, why don't I dump jealousy and anger for 40 days. I mean, it's not like Jesus Christ gave up food for 40 days because he was consumed by it. And that's the nature of worry, isn't it? This emotion is all consuming and miserable.

But I like worrying. Ask me my interests and I'll tell you reading, eating pie and worrying. It's what I do. If there's an electrical storm I worry an errant bolt will strike me. The airplane I'm flying in will crash. A bear will attack me on a city street.

Several years ago I saw a psychologist. I confided in him that during brief moments I would feel nothing—no worry—and this worry-free feeling scared the shit out of me.

Don't take worrying away from me. That's mine. If I'm not worrying, I'm not breathing. It's how I know I'm alive.

And yet I have sworn it off for 40 whole days. I'll have none of it, and I might die trying.

Today was day one of no worrying, and it was difficult. Let me take you through a 10 minute chunk of my day. I left work around 5:45. It was snowing hard and as I hit the sidewalk I worried about my relatively new Converse All-Stars: they'd be ruined in the wet weather, I thought. On top of it all, my feet would get all wet and likely freeze.

As I crossed the Michigan Avenue bridge my usual bridge anxiety swept over me. Not that it would collapse or a car would careen into me, but instead that I might slip and fall over the railing and into the Chicago River.

On the sidewalk I noticed a CAUTION: FALLING ICE sign outside a skyscraper. When I see these signs my feelings of worry turn to certainly; I am certain a sheet of ice from above will strike me on the head and it will be lights out for me.

I cut through a department store and began thinking about multiple scerosis and how the ache in my leg was probably MS, or at the very least some freaky nerve disease. This thought caused a mild and brief panic attack. (I now worry that writing about MS will cause some karmic disturbance and I will indeed come down with the malady.)

As I crossed a wintry street I worried a car turning left would lose me in its blind spot and then—splat.

I worried about the safety of Sally, my ladyfriend.

I worried about the unborn child in my sister-in-law's stomach.

I worried about bills I thought I had forgotten to pay.

I worried about the drunken pair walking towards me.

I worried about Hillary Clinton winning the Democratic nomination.

I worried I might soon suffer a stroke.

Indeed, it's an uphill battle.

I worry I won't make it.

39 days and some change to go.

Vote OBAMA on Super Tuesday (and beyond)

2008-02-04T20:44:00.000-08:00

Cream rises to the top ... yeah right ... shit floats

2008-01-30T19:38:00.000-08:00

Shock the Michael

2007-12-18T20:05:00.000-08:00

What did you do Tuesday afternoon?

Cuz I was just wondering, since I spent the day getting electrocuted by a neurologist named Dr. Charles Wang. And every time he hit me with escalating volts of electricity I laughed like a maniac.

Dr. Wang found this reaction peculiar.

On Tuesday afternoon at 2pm I underwent a procedure called an EMG, because a neurologist—Dr. Wang—had reason to believe the ulna nerve in my left arm was damaged.

The ulna nerve is the one that wraps around the funny bone. You know that feeling when you hit your funny bone—that cocktail of pain, tingling and numbness that shoots down the bottom of your arm and leaves your pinky finger feeling a bit electric?

Well, a couple weeks ago, Dr. Wang—an affable and confident Chinese man—told me I had likely damaged that nerve, because, among other reasons, the bottom of my left hand and pinky were feeling a bit electric.

An EMG is the test that determines nerve damage, or as everyone at the hospital referred to the test as—the dreaded EMG. This is what happens during an EMG test: The doctor electrically stimulates (read: shocks) the nerves in your arm and hand. The amount of voltage is determined by the severity of damage.

My left ulna nerve is significantly damaged, Dr. Wang told me. This meant he had to crank up the voltage.

So it’s Tuesday afternoon, 2pm, and I’m sitting on an examining table wearing jeans, socks and a hospital gown. Dr. Wang is trying to explain what the EMG will feel like.

“It will be unlike anything you’ve ever felt,” he begins, “unless you’ve been struck by lightning…”

“I’m scared of lightning,” I interject.

“Right,” he says dismissing my comment. “So this will feel, um, uncomfortable. First I’m going to stimulate [read: electroshock] the nerves—that will feel … strange, and then I’m going to put needles into your arm to detect the sensory of those nerves.”

He then asks me about the weather. I tell him the EMG device looks medieval. He chuckles, and starts placing marks with black magic marker on my arm. This is where he will shock me.

I ask him what he’s doing for the holidays. He mutters something about a vacation to the Bahamas, then starts placing some sort of gel on a gauze pad.

I tell him I should’ve stayed in school to be a doctor. He insists I too can vacation to the Bahamas, and places the moist gauze pad—which is connected to this medieval machine—on my skin.

“With you and your family?” I ask.

He replies by hitting me with the first volts of electricity.

My arm takes a slight jolt and my entire body jerks. The pain in the spot where the voltage enters my arms isn’t nearly as bad as I suspected—just deep and dull—but the sensation in my hand, where the voltage ends up, is … odd.

You know when your hand goes completely numb because you slept on it funny, and as your hand recovers there's that moment between benign tingling and needle-y pain? Well, that is the sensation the EMG voltage creates in my hand.

But I suppose we can just call it odd.

So Dr. Wang continues to hit me with varying degrees of voltage and every time my body jerks. He then inputs some numbers and notes into the computer. I ask him if my body jerks are dramatic; Dr. Wang tells me I’m doing just fine.

The first half-dozen or so shocks weren’t too bad, but those shocks—he explained—were on my radial nerve, the undamaged one. Next up was my ulna nerve.

What the doctor is doing with these shocks—or nerve stimulations—is determining how long it takes an impulse to travel from one point on my nerve to another. If a nerve is damaged or blocked, more voltage is required to get an accurate reading.

Dr. Wang starts with the ulna nerve—slight shock, odd feeling, body jerk. “Hmm,” he says. And then he hits me with another, stronger shock—odder feeling, body jerks in the air so there’s actually room between my butt and the butcher paper.

“Wow,” Dr. Wang says matter-of-factly. He cranks up the voltage and hits me again—same physical reaction, except this time I start giggling.

“Whatsa matta?” He asks.

“Nothing, nothing, keep going,” I tell him.

He keeps going. This time with even stronger voltage. And I start cracking up. It begins as a giggle. Dr. Wang glances at me then hits me with the voltage again. The giggle escalates into a hardier laugh. He hits me again. I am now laughing like a maniac.

“Is everything okay?” He asks.

“Fine, just fine, it’s just, unlike anything I’ve ever felt,” I say, “It’s just so fucking weird.”

I don’t think Dr. Wang likes cursing, because he then hit me with the strongest voltage of the day. My hand clenches; my body leaps and spasms; gum ejects from my mouth.

“AAAWWWW WANG!!!” I shout.

“What? What?” He says.

“Yikes, man! That one was just plain … weird!”

He seems to momentarily delight in this, taking it almost as a compliment.

“You like doing this, don’t you?” I ask him.

Dr. Wang grins, looks at me and says, “I do.”

He continued with the voltage, except now it was decreasing in strength and my body was growing accustomed to the jerks, spasms and odd sensation. After three dozen or so of the electroshocks he told me he was done … and then said, “Just kidding,” and hit me one last time.

After the electroshocks, Dr. Wang dug needles into my nerves and made me flex certain muscles. He eventually told me my ulna nerve was significantly damaged, probably due to some heavy wear and tear, and that I would soon need surgery. We are going to meet in the New Year to talk about this, presumably when he returns—tan and relaxed—from the Bahamas.

Later that day I was standing in line at a shop, hands in my pocket, when I thought I felt my cell phone vibrating. I removed my cell phone and saw no one had called. Returning the phone to my pocket, I put my hand in front of my face and felt it vibrating—like my hand was suddenly a tuning fork. I shook it out. The vibrating continued for a minute or so and suddenly subsided.

And then I started laughing.

On strippers, good times, and my friend Brett

2007-09-25T16:36:00.000-07:00

I’m not a stripper guy. Watching them makes me vaguely uncomfortable. For me, there’s nothing sexy about watching a coked up, moderately attractive woman with a child dance naked for my amusement.

Of course, that is a stereotype. I’m sure there are a number of strippers who are really doing it “to pay for college.”

This is a story about strippers, and good times, and my friend Brett, who died three years ago.

Labor Day weekend was my long-time friend Joe’s bachelor party. We started on a rooftop overlooking Wrigley Field. Then the 20-odd guys making up the party went to a bar, where one of us was kicked out for being belligerently drunk. We rambled to another bar, and then, after more drinks and some food, the nine who were still standing went to a strip club at 9pm. I won’t divulge whose idea it was.

Being a Sunday night at 9pm, the crowd inside the club was sparse. Some of us drank overpriced bottled beer and week mixed drinks, smoked cigarettes and talked about how our money was best spent entertaining the bachelor. They told us $250 was the going rate for a private dance, and as much as we love Joe, none of us was willing to cough up that dough. So we made due. Joe had fun. And that’s all I’ll say about that.

We were only at the strip club for an hour. One of our friends disappeared without saying goodbye or paying his bar tab, but these things tend to happen during a day-long bachelor party. The bachelor seemed pleased, as did the one married man who was with us.

Afterwards, the remaining seven revelers made it to one last bar where things quickly descended into madness. The bar was really more of a restaurant, and the remaining diners and few drinkers and namely the bartender weren’t amused by our antics. At one point, the very drunk bachelor walked half-way around the bar and yelled, “Hey barkeep! Barkeep! Can I get some nachos?”

“We’re done serving food,” he said.

“FUCK!” The bachelor screamed. Then, turning to us added, “The nachos here are ree-diculous!”

Shortly after that, the bachelor said goodnight, attempted to steal a barstool and then left with his best man and future brother-in-law.

I’ve known Joe since about the age of 12. It all started in Little League, and then progressed when I transferred from parochial school to public school in the seventh grade. The close friendship continued into high school. We even went to the same college, living together for a year-and-a-half. Joe has employed me, briefly, when I badly needed employment. He’s been a consistent and usually loyal companion, and I’ve always celebrated his eccentricities (like saying, “ree-diculous” way too much) and defended those eccentricities as a sign of brilliance—because Joe is prodigal in his intelligence—and not the markings of a sociopath.

He’s a good man. And his bachelor party was a good time. And I don’t like bachelor parties. But Joe’s was a riot. The fact that we went to a strip club, I think, illustrates how remarkable the company was because strip clubs always make me feel bad. But even a strip club couldn’t foul my mood. We laughed like bastards all day and night. The humor was palpable as we took turns roasting each other. I rarely see the kind of eagerness for listening that I do when I’m with these friends. There is never a bad joke, or comment or story because someone is always there to pick up a dull story with an uproarious addition. And while there is plenty of “do you remember whens”—sometime described as the lowest form of conversation—the new memories being built are better than those before, even if they aren’t as wild. The conversations are meatier, even if they aren’t all-night talking sessions over a few bottles of something foul. The laughs are deeper, even if they aren’t provoked by intoxicates.

And just as you might be thinking, “What does this have to do with my friend Brett?” The continued and evolving brilliance of the conversations, of the friendships has everything to do with Brett—because he is missing it. When he was murdered on September 4, 2004, a mother had her child taken from her, a brother was lost, a boyfriend and all the hopes that come with him were dashed, and a friend was gone.

Brett was the most jovial of them all. He had the most lust for life. He was the most beautiful of us all. And that makes the nasty taste of his death all the more bitter, and the sheer fact that it happened all the more bitterly ironic. Brett laughed the hardest, and told the best stories. He made the best stories possible. Brett led the charge always. His exploits are best described as “ree-diculous.”

I don’t like saying he was “there in spirit.” It seems trite, simple to the point of insulting. The bottom line is he wasn’t there. I don’t know if there are ghosts, or spirits or angels. I could point to some inexplicable experiences or feelings that might suggest they exist, but without conclusive proof I won’t reduce my feelings of loss to some 4-H club, Hallmark notion of mourning.

That said, Brett was present that bachelor party day and night not necessarily in spirit, but through his indelible mark on our lives. He taught us how to laugh harder and delight in each other’s mad experiences. He provided so many incomparable stories. He truly was the one who was up for anything, and he loved all of it.

As the years pass since death, I forget his face a little bit more. The sound of his voice becomes fainter. His presence in my dreams—once so consistent—grows less and less. My attachment to him grows weaker. And even as we talk about him less, there is no disputing we carry him with us in all our actions—our work, our love lives, and especially our reveling. He showed us how to lead an exceptional life, and every moment we choose to strive for that exception he continues to live.

Whether you believe in an afterlife or not, the human body still rots and disappears, ashes always eventually blow away. The way people continue to live is through those who are still here, and if we don’t carry them with us then we’ve discredited their very existence. Brett’s turn to lead the charge is now over. It is our turn. And if we don’t accept that responsibility, he is gone forever. But we can’t let him end when we die. We have to show others—sons and daughters, friends, strangers—how to live uproariously.

That is eternal life. And that, and $250, will get you a private dance at a Chicago strip club.

Day six: Greenpeace is annoying

2007-07-26T15:18:00.000-07:00

Sally donated $20 to Greenpeace on Monday. They caught her outside work, gave her the “save the cuddly polar bears” shtick and the former social worker Sally couldn’t resist. Good for her. Seriously, good for her. She literally put her money where her mouth is and I envy that.

I’ve been accosted numerous times by this gaggle of shaggy haired college students preying for donators on Chicago streets. All I see when they approach are college kids trying to turn a buck on summer vacation while doing something that might get them laid later in the year. “Yeah that’s right, I’m trying to save the planet.” It’s Peace Corps for cowards.

After countless attempts by the Greenpeacers to squeeze a buck out of me I finally gave it to them straight. I was waiting for the bus to take me home when one of them approaches. He’s got spiked hair. He’s spunky. He’s wearing tattered cargo shorts. “Hey you look like a guy who cares about the environment,” he spouts while doing this awkward back and forth thing on the balls of his toes. He is pointing at me.

“Listen,” I say, “if you want me to sign something, I’ll sign something, but I can’t give you any money.”

“Aw come on,” he rebuts holding up a picture of a polar bear caught on a floating glacier. “Don’t you want to save the poor little polar bears?”

Of course I want to save the polar bears. In fact, I probably want to save the polar bears more than the next two guys and I’m scared shitless of those Godless killers. But, there’s countless excuses as to why I don’t donate to Greenpeace. Here are a few:

I’m lazy and I don’t feel like attempting to find my constantly lost check book or giving them my credit card number. It just seems like a hassle.
I’d rather give my money to an organization that most Capitol Hill lawmakers and corporate policy makers don’t think are whackos. Let’s get serious; Greenpeace has done far more harm than good for itself by chasing down whaling ships.
I don’t have that much disposable income.

I digress.

So the guy questions my dedication to saving polar bears and I nod, “Yes, I want to save the polar bears.”

“Well there you go!” He fires back.

And this is where I finally lay down the law.

“Okay, buddy,” I begin. “If I had enough money to give to Greenpeace I wouldn’t be standing here waiting for the bus. Got me?”

He looks confused. I continue.

“All right, you don’t get me. So if I’m taking the bus that means I don’t have enough money to drive a car to work everyday, pay for gas and pay for parking. Now, if I did drive everywhere then your organization would probably send me or my senator direct mail urging me to stop driving or urging my senator to somehow cut down on the number of cars on the road. Which I agree with.

“But, as you might be able to see, if I gave you money that would mean I had the money to give, which would also mean I drive to work and that means you would probably be spending the money I’d give you to convince me not to drive.

“So as far as I can tell, by me taking the bus and not giving you money you’re breaking even.”

I believe I lost him somewhere around me talking about driving to work. In fact, I think I lost myself somewhere around there as well. Anyway, then the bus came and it was over.

So what does this have to do with being a hippie?

Nothing at all. In fact, donating money to Greenpeace would have been a good hippie thing to do. Instead, my contribution to the hippie lifestyle this week was drinking from a Nalgene. Oh yeah, and not shaving, which is awesome.

Day one: Dead and expensive beer

2007-07-22T13:23:00.000-07:00

I’m one day in to being a hippie and first off, I’d like to thank all of you who offered me pot. Your outpouring of warmth does not go unappreciated (or unnoticed for that matter). However, I’m doing the hippie thing without the crutch of drugs and perhaps in doing so I will come to understand the drug culture that surrounds our salt of the earth brethren.

Yesterday I began by listening to what is considered hippie music, namely the Grateful Dead. And I enjoyed it. During a time in high school and college I dabbled in the Grateful Dead and my current listening habits are reminding me of those times fondly. Also, I’m noting that the Dead are really a great musical act.

My second hippie indulgence was “kind” beer. I went to the liquor store last night and stared at the beer coolers. Recalling an evening out with one of Sally’s friends and her boyfriend, Steve, a 30-something hippie turned urban photographer, I picked out Sierra Nevada Pale Ale—a San Francisco beer that Steve (one of my hippie touchstone) particularly enjoys. After bringing the Sierra Nevada home I text messaged a hippie friend from college, Larry, who said about the beer “that’s pretty kind.” I was on the right track.

Sierra Nevada is good. And it wasn’t the first time I’d drank the beer, but this time around I paid particular attention to how it made me feel—not the alcohol, but the experience of drinking this particular brand. And you know something, I didn’t feel anything different than drinking my usual brands, which are usually cheap bottles beers like Miller High Life and Pabst Blue Ribbon. I think the Sierra Nevada does taste better than the cheap stuff, although I’m not sure it justifies the hefty $9 per six-pack price tag. This, I suppose, proves it’s not cheap being a hippie.

This afternoon I’m going for a walk. I believe hippies walk a lot. So I will walk. Then my ladyfriend and I are going to the grocery store. Reports on this grocery store trip and my walk will follow.

Hippy is as hippy does

2007-07-21T11:09:00.000-07:00

Last night I downloaded a Grateful Dead live show from 1971. This morning I decided to become a hippy. For one week.

At the moment I'm wearing a pair of homemade camouflage shorts. (Homemade because I used scissors to turn the camouflage pants into camouflage shorts.) A wrinkled white t-shirt and no shoes or socks. I haven't shaved since Monday. This should prove a fine base for the beard I will grow between now and next Saturday.

This afternoon I will go to the market and buy hummus, pita bread and some organic goods. I will drink microbrewed beer. I will change my vocabulary to use words like "kind" to describe my beer, my current feeling and my weed. Speaking of weed, I'm having considerable difficulty finding some, which brings up one question I will explore during this week long experiment: can I become a hippy without the aid of marijuana (or patculli for that matter)? Among the other questions I will explore:

Will this experience make me more or less apathetic?
Will I become more or less judgmental?
Will my girlfriend, who's working out as I write this, still love me by next Saturday?
Will I lose my job?
Will I lose my friends?
Will I make new hippy friends?

The list goes on I assure you. I look forward to the challenge and the excuse to be extremely lazy for the next seven days. For my friends in my immediate zip code, unless you bring over "kind" beer from Colorado and sit with me as we watch bad cable t.v. and listen to Phish, then I won't see you until next week.

I will update my efforts here. Wish me luck.

I am so fat, like, huge

2007-06-06T17:31:00.000-07:00

I had a very feminine moment a couple weeks ago. Wait, wait, allow me to preempt ridicule--it was a more feminine moment than usual.

It was Tuesday evening, late for a school night--nearly midnight--and I had to be up earlier than usual the next day and I had to dress up: slacks, dress shirt and tie. Because it was May and rather warm I decided to break into my summer big boy outfits.

I despise khaki pants and I especially despise when people call them chinos. If this is 1955 and you're a Kennedy then I'll let it pass, otherwise you're a douche bag who has spent far too many years reading the J. Crew catalogue.

The point is I was not trying on khaki pants, instead slacks, slacks I purchased the previous summer. There were three pair I laid out. The first pant was a simple pair of black slacks, which buttoned, although tucking anything in was impossible. The second pair, a bluish-gray pant with a slight red pinstripe, buttoned but pinched my bladder in a rather uncomfortable way. The final pair, suit pants I bought in late July 2006, would not button.

I freaked.

This has never happened to me. If anything, my waste size has shrunk over the years from a 33 to a 32 and then nosedived to a 29 before settling at 30. (My inseam is a 32 for those keeping score at home.) I felt chubby. I felt unattractive. I felt depressed. I bitched and I whined.

After more than five minutes of this embarrassing behaviour Sally grabbed me by the arms and shook me--my shaggy brown hair flailing to and fro--insisting I snap out of it. "Get a hold of yourself," she shouted then twiced slapped me on either side of the cheek. "You're a man! Act like one!"

I slumped to the bed and rubbed the tears from my face. I looked up at her, allowed a sob, then screamed: "You don't understand what it's like!" And under my breath whispered, "You never have."

Sally then knelt down near me and rubbed my hair. "I'm sorry I slapped you, baby," she said. "You know I get a little carried away after a few beers. You're beautiful."

"Stop it," I said slapping away her advances.

"Fine," she shouted, "I work long and hard to come home to this bullshit? To this?" Then stomped out the door.

I haven't eaten since.

How many newspapers does it take to get fair and balanced coverage?

2007-05-17T12:24:00.000-07:00

Today in the Middle East, Israel launched a rocket attack against Hamas that initial reports say killed two people and injured dozens more. The rocket attack was Israeli retaliation for an earlier attack by Palestinian militants.

Of note are the various headlines and leads published in online newspaper editions once news broke of Israel’s rocket attack. Here are five examples. Judge for yourself on the media’s chosen method of coverage.

Headlines as of 12:14pm central standard time, Thursday May 17

Jerusalem Post:
One killed as IAF hits Gaza trailer housing Hamas guards
Air force fires missile at a car carrying Hamas commander, killing 1; 1 dead, 45 wounded in earlier airstrike; IDF tanks roll into Gaza.

Al Jazeera:
Israel hits Hamas targets in Gaza
Two killed and dozens hurt in air strikes launched after rockets fired into Israel.

New York Times:
Israel Strikes a Hamas Compound
The airstrike today was retaliation for rocket attacks on Israel fired by Palestinian militants in Gaza

Chicago Tribune:
Hamas-Fatah clashes escalate in Gaza Strip
Rocket attacks across border spur Israeli response

The Guardian:
Hamas threatens Israel suicide bombings
Hamas today threatened to resume suicide bombings after Israeli planes launched air strikes against the militant Palestinian group in Gaza

Jane Fonda: traitor, workout queen, stone fox

2007-05-12T16:23:00.000-07:00

Watching my ladyfriend, Sally, perform a homegrown workout Saturday morning reminded me of my childhood, my mother and my mixed relationship with Jane Fonda. Hanoi Jane, as so many older than me have come to know her, is perhaps the only woman who could both lure me away from Sally and provoke murderous rage in my father.

Why?

Because she was a traitor. She was the workout queen. And she was a stone fox.

This morning, after running on her treadmill, Sally settled in front of the television and began stretching and bending. It was amusing and cute, but also distracting because her right leg kept swiping my view of the television screen like a slow moving windshield wiper. And then, just like that, I was three years-old again. In the family room of my childhood home, the television--my surrogate nanny framed in glossy dark wood--on one side and me, surrounded by toys, on the other side of the room. Between us was my mother, perched on her side facing the t.v., raising her right leg parallel to her body like a slow moving windshield wiper.

Jane Fonda was on the T.V. Her socks were bunched and hefty. She wore a leotard and over the leotard was underpants. Perched on her side, she raised her right leg parallel to her body like a slow windshield wiper. Not long before, I had been playing on the floor of the family room watching Sesame Street or Mister Rogers or reruns of Three's Company. Then my mother walked in and asked me to kindly move to the back of the family room. She pushed a video cassette into the VCR. I knew the drill but always asked how long this would last. My mother would always answer: "45 minutes." A lifetime, as far as I was concerned.

From as early as I can remember--perhaps the age of two-and-a-half, maybe younger, possibly older than that--until I begrudgingly began going to pre-school, this Fonda-workout ritual would take place at least three mornings a week. I played and gazed at the strange woman and all the faceless, leotard clad men and women in the background on the television. It was confusing, the whole thing, why anyone would do this, especially my mother, I would ask myself. Then, 45 minutes later--a lifetime--it would end and I was watching the T.V. show that followed the one I just missed.

My father hated Jane Fonda and I have no idea how my mother's insistence on buying her workout tapes didn't end the marriage. I imagine he weathered the Fonda-workout ritual for the benefit of the kids. The marriage was likely saved once my mom ditched the tapes and began working out at a fitness center. My father probably bought her the membership.

At some point, probably around junior high or high school, Jane Fonda resurfaced in my life and I learned why my father hated her so much. She was a traitor, he said. Rent the movie Hanoi Hilton, he urged.

In 1972, Fonda visited the infamous North Vietnamese prisoner of war camp dubbed Hanoi Hilton. Fonda, an anti-war activist, toured the camp with her North Vietnamese guides. The whole thing was staged. The prisoners--tortured daily, starved and made to live in tiny bamboo cages--were cleaned and dressed up and put on display. As Fonda viewed them and shook their hands one soldier attempted to pass her a note pleading for help. Fonda turned the note over to the guards. When she left, the American prisoner was dragged off and shot. Upon her return to the States, Fonda reported to the public and to Congress that these men--whom she criticized for attacking the sovereign nation of Vietnam--were treated humanely. Later, of course, the world would learn Fonda's observations were horribly false. Due to this debacle, she became known as Hanoi Jane. The 1987 film Hanoi Hilton, which tells the story of the wretched POW camp, contains a scene involving a Jane Fonda-like character.

Hanoi Jane at Hanoi Hilton

I still have not seen that movie. If my dad reads this post his reaction will be, "You still haven't seen that movie!" Then my father, who recently became an avid Net Flix user, will likely tell me he's putting it in his que and we will watch it together.

For several years Jane Fonda faded into the nether regions of my brain and I did not think of her. Then I saw a picture of her from the sixties, before she became an activist. I was immediately smitten. Fonda was a stone fox. She was curvy and flirtatious with a come hither stare no man could resist. You can have your Marilyn Monroes and Angie Dickinsons, your Farah Fawcetts and your Cindy Crawfords and your Tyra Banks and your Giselle Bundchens. I'll take 60s Fonda. The pin-up of all pin-ups. The woman, who attached to any man's arm, makes him immediately more intriguing.

And that brings us back to my living room where my ladyfriend performed stretches and workouts oddly similar to those of Jane Fonda. And I realized, as I do every day, that with Sally on my arm I too am immediately more intriguing. She is my stone fox.

I'm quite sure my father would echo that statement about his wife, my mother, despite his profound hatred of Jane Fonda.

When Heroes Stumble

2007-04-20T10:23:00.001-07:00

http://www.tmz.com/2007/04/19/alec-baldwins-threatening-message-to-daughter

My fellow Americans ... our President

2007-04-19T12:08:00.000-07:00

GUNS

2007-04-18T10:29:00.000-07:00

In 1992, the United States counted 13,429 handgun murders.

The next closest country was Canada with 128.

All European nations plus Australia and Japan registered less than 100 handgun murders.

In the United States, more than half of all households have a gun in them.

In terms of developed nations, the United States is number one in gun ownership and number one—by a landslide—in handgun murders.

When Americans do something, they do it right!

On Monday, April 16, a small Korean man killed 32 people with two handguns on the campus of Virginia Tech. He legally purchased one of those handguns, a Glock 9 millimeter, plus a box of ammunition, at a Virginia gun shop for $571, according to the New York Times.

It is unlikely this small Korean man could have killed any one, let alone 32 people, if he did not have a gun.

And yet President George W. Bush has dismissed the idea that stiffer gun control laws in this country could have prevented the tragedy.

Meanwhile, Republican presidential hopeful John McCain, an Arizona Senator, had this to say about the tragedy: “This brutal attack … guarantees an individual right to keep and bare firearms,” according to a story in the New York Times.

It’s nice to know Sen. McCain’s thoughts are with the victims.

Kurt Vonnegut Jr.: More important than Calculus

2007-04-13T13:48:00.000-07:00

I discovered Kurt Vonnegut Jr. in high school.

I recall reading Cat’s Cradle, Slaughterhouse-Five and Welcome to the Monkey House in first period math class. I would conceal the small paperbacks beneath my textbook. Classmates would often glance over at me—apparently intent on the textbook—while I laughed out loud.

Because he’s now dead—and because one very important person in my life didn’t know who Kurt Vonnegut was—I offer these quotes and anecdotes about one of America’s greatest writers. With Vonnegut and Hunter S. Thompson both dead, I imagine we’re all pretty well fucked.

No matter how corrupt, greedy and heartless our government, our corporations, our media and our religious and charitable institutions may become, the music will still be wonderful. If I should ever die, God forbid, let this be my epitaph: THE ONLY PROOF HE NEEDED FOR THE EXISTENCE OF GOD WAS MUSIC.

True terror is to wake up one morning and discover that your high school class is running the country.

We could have saved the Earth but we were too damned cheap.

From a David Brinkley interview in 2006, Vonnegut was 81 or 82:

I ask him whether he worries that cigarettes are killing him. "Oh, yes," he answers, in what is clearly a set-piece gag. "I've been smoking Pall Mall unfiltered cigarettes since I was twelve or fourteen. So I'm going to sue the Brown & Williamson Tobacco Company, who manufactured them. And do you know why?"

"Lung cancer?" I offer.

"No. No. Because I'm eighty-three years old. The lying bastards! On the package Brown & Williamson promised to kill me. Instead, their cigarettes didn't work. Now I'm forced to suffer leaders with names like Bush and Dick and, up until recently, 'Colon.'"

People don't come to church for preachments, of course, but to daydream about God.

I want to stand as close to the edge as I can without going over. Out on the edge you see all the kinds of things you can't see from the center.

If you can do a half-assed job of anything, you're a one-eyed man in a kingdom of the blind.

Vonnegut dropped out of the University of Chicago before earning a degree in anthropology. After the publication of Cat's Cradle, the University of Chicago anthropology chair met with college administration and decided to confer on Vonnegut his BA based on Cat's Cradle as his thesis.

Vonnegut told the school to fuck off.

Who is more to be pitied, a writer bound and gagged by policemen or one living in perfect freedom who has nothing more to say?

The only difference between [George W.] Bush and [Adolf] Hitler is that Hitler was elected.

Laughter and tears are both responses to frustration and exhaustion. I myself prefer to laugh, since there is less cleaning up to do afterward.

America is the wealthiest nation on Earth, but its people are mainly poor, and poor Americans are urged to hate themselves...It is in fact a crime for an American to be poor, even though America is a nation of poor. Every other nation has folk traditions of men who were poor but extremely wise and virtuous, and therefore more estimable than anyone with power and gold. No such tales are told by American poor. They mock themselves and glorify their betters."

It is a very mixed blessing to be brought back from the dead.

The indisputable appeal of ignorance

2007-02-20T08:58:00.000-08:00

I despise everything about “The Taliban Song” by country singer Toby Keith. This song is everything that’s wrong with America. It is ignorant redneck American culture. “The Taliban Song,” recorded on Keith’s 2003 live album Shock ‘n Y’all (a not so subtle reference to Bush’s Shock and Awe campaign in Iraq), is the most offensive mainstream tune recorded post-1965. And Americans love it. “The Taliban Song” is a relic of America’s recent Dark Age—when we were blinded by anger, patriotism and conservatism.

I hate everything this song stands for. I hate Toby Keith. I hate the people who like this song.

And yet sadly, despite my hatred for everything this tune represents, I adore the actual song.

This smirking ballad is just so damn catchy. There’s this swaying melody to it as well as a booming (albeit ignorant) crowd reaction. The mantra “ride camel ride” is infinitely catchy and the line, “We should do just fine out around Palestine or maybe Turkmenistan,” is the work of a truly amazing wordsmith. Keith, or whoever wrote it, rhymes Palestine with Turkmenistan—that’s shock ‘n y’all.

I accepted my love for this song last night. Today (as I listen to the song right now) I’m admitting it to you. Yet this acceptance and admittance has not set me free. Instead, I feel like one of the recently infected in the movie 28 Days Later. Infected blood has just entered my body and it’s only a matter of time before I morph into an uncontrollable, foaming at the mouth, flesh-eating maniac. (Or neoconservative, whichever you prefer.)

As the characters insist in the movie, kill me before the infection takes hold.

Jeff Schwister is a man of the people, so fuck him like one

2007-02-19T08:44:00.000-08:00

Jeff Schwister knows more about movies than you do. He is paid to watch movies and then write about them. Jeff provides for himself and his fiancé by knowing movies. He lives them. He breathes them. He sees bad movies so you don't have to.

And now Jeff challenges you to an Oscar showdown.

Years ago he created the J Awards—The People’s Oscars, as I like to say. Right now there is a publication, Beep, which has adopted Jeff’s model and is offering it as Beep's Scorecard Movie Awards.

Please … for Jeff’s sake, for my sake, hell for your daughter’s sake (sorry, I just watched Tommy Boy over the weekend) visit Beep's Scorecard Movie Awards and vote for your top movies, actors, moviemakers and movie moments of the year.

And beat Jeff Schwister at his own game.

If a celebrity dies in the woods and nobody hears it ...

2007-02-12T10:45:00.000-08:00

Late Thursday evening my dad crawled into bed and whispered to my nearly sleeping mom, “Anna Nicole Smith died.” His voice was drenched in sympathy, sadness and regret that he did not know this busty woman in life, but knew her entire story in death.

I am fairly certain that until Thursday my dad did not know Anna Nicole Smith beyond a mention or two (probably while the Supreme Court was hearing her case last year) on his 24 hour news channel. (He prefers MSNBC, although Fox News does him just fine. He hasn’t said much either way about CNN or CNBC.)

And yet there he was, staying up late to hear the final report and then disturbing my mom’s slumber with the tragic news.

Now that is 24 hours news saturation.

I read about Smith’s death the minute word of her demise began flying around my office. I then filed that information away, had a conversation or three about it and happily went about my day. I am now looking forward to my next US Weekly that will surely have the whole story.

But CNN, MSNBC, Fox News—I’m sure these news channels would break the death of a b-list celebrity before the news that Iran detonated a nuclear device in Israel.

And why? Because of Internet traffic.

According to an L.A. Times story, the amount of Internet traffic sparked by Smith’s death is the reason she became a front page story in many widely read newspapers. (I noticed during my travels that the Minneapolis Star Tribune ran a cover story—below the fold—on Smith’s death in its Friday edition.)

Newspaper editors and television producers are tapping into the reading habits of Web consumers and tailoring their coverage as a result.

And so, because millions of Internet users across America were enamored with the brief rise and long, fatal and pointless fall of an American b-lister, my dad in suburban Chicago is staying up late and waking up his wife to tell her this news.

And so, if an important event occurs (say, like Iran nuking another country) and no one on the Internet cares … Did it really happen?

How to abuse valium

2007-02-09T10:45:00.000-08:00

I am flying to Duluth, Minn. this evening—the girlhood home of me ladyfriend, Sally. I hate flying, particularly the tiny puddle-jumper plane I must fly to the North Country. My palms will sweat. My knuckles will clench. I will feel an overwhelming sensation to shit. And, worst of all, I will anticipate a fiery, jarring death aboard that aircraft.

To quell this sense of doom, I will chew valium and drink vodka. This combination seems to take the sting out of impending death.

The question I am often asked is, “Where do you get valium?” (Which is then quickly followed by, “Can I have some?”)

I get valium at the Walgreen’s pharmacy counter. My doctor prescribes it to me because several years ago I went to him complaining of (fairly severe) anxiety attacks. He provided three options: 1) We do nothing; 2) He prescribes daily medicine, which will slowly and without detection alter my mood to make me less anxious; 3) He writes me an open prescription for valium.

I chose number three.

The prescription is only filled when I am set to fly and even then—depending on my mood and whether I’ve seen any actual or fictitious plane crashes on television—I don’t always fill it. The pharmacist gives me 30 little white pills with the directions to basically take as needed. In the course of roundtrip air travel I probably ingest between five and seven of those little helpers.

This then leaves me with roughly 25 (perfectly legal) pills, which I use recreationally until they’re gone. Let me stress that recreationally means never at work, never while driving and rarely—if ever—while drinking alcohol. Also, I fill the prescription only when I fly, whether this occurs every week or every three years. (It averages to a few times a year.)

Most people simply swallow these pills. Doing so requires a roughly 20 to 40 minute activation period where you wait for the drugs to take effect. If you’re like me—and I pray you aren’t—and the airplane makes an odd noise and you need to relax pronto then swallowing them just won’t work. In this case of immediate panic, follow these easy steps:

1) Carefully remove pill from bottle to ensure trembling hands don’t accidentally dump the whole bottle.

2) Place single pill between bottle lip and gums.

3) Let it dissolve. Drink liquids to hasten the process and diminish aspirin-like taste of pill. (Note: orange juice, while it will expedite the process, actually harms the absorption of the pill’s active ingredients.)

4) Once it is reduced to a pulpy mush—swallow. Take liquid and swish it around in mouth—swallow.

The effects of the pill should be felt immediately.

Repeat at own cost.

Believe in your lesbians

2007-02-08T06:06:00.000-08:00

My ladyfriend is a waitress at a local tavern. On Monday evening, two regular customers—23-year-old women (read: yuppies), who come into the bar often, drink a lot and bitch about their fiancées—grew so drunk they began “sucking each other’s breasts and faces,” according to witnesses.

After this surprisingly long public make-out session (between 5 and 10 minutes, I’m told), one of the participants fled the bar so quickly she left half the contents of her purse and escaped with her friend’s jacket.

The temperatures had plummeted below zero that night and the second kisser was desperately drunk. After much ado, bar employees—including me ladyfriend—paid for her cab ride home.

Popular opinion says this: The women will not return to the bar; their drunken behavior likely destroyed their friendship; this is a more than embarrassing moment that will stick with the pair for years to come.

Then there’s my opinion: These two engaged women get together at least once a week. They get drunk. They go back to one of their places and enjoy hot, steamy lesbian sex. Meanwhile, their fiancées—one of whom, I’m told, is a cop—have no idea.

On Monday evening, the pair got so drunk their urges became uncontrollable—animalistic, even—so they dropped their inhibitions and started going at it, right there in the bar. The one woman then quickly fled because she either whispered or intimated to the other, “See you at home.” Then she ran home to prepare for her lover. Unfortunately, the other woman was so drunk she failed to grasp the throaty invitation.

I know it’s highly unlikely, almost impossible, but just imagine if that were true.

When I first presented this theory to me ladyfriend and my former roommate Tim (star of the iconic “Tracking Unemployed Tim” blog and its short-lived follow up “Tracking Employed Tim"), they scoffed at me and called me a naïve daydreamer. To which I stressed again, “But what if it’s true? What if it’s true?”

“And that’s the amazing thing about you,” Tim said. “That you can get so excited, so worked up about that one percent.”

And so I whimsically asked, “What are we without our one percent?”

Like Vice President Dick Cheney's one percent doctrine (which basically says if there is a one percent chance, say, Iraq has weapons of mass destructions America must do something about it), I have mine.

The world turns based on this one percent. It allows people in even the direst circumstances to dream big. People die for their one percent.

Indeed, what are we without our one percent?

What are we, moreover, without our one percent chance that those yuppies at the end of the bar with the gleaming rocks on their fingers are secretly lesbians?

And what are we, even more so, without our one percent chance that those yuppies at the end of the bar with the gleaming rocks on their fingers—one of whom is engaged to a cop—are secretly lesbians because their cop boyfriends can’t satisfy them?

That, my friends, is the true one percent doctrine.

Ignorance is bliss--especialy if you're a strong swimmer

2007-02-07T11:06:00.000-08:00

Despite “unequivocal” evidence that humans cause global warming and that it will grow hotter in the centuries to come, the Houston Chronicle Monday chose to publish two (of its three online) letters debunking and decrying those claims.

“I AM not a scientist,” one letter begins, “but it doesn't take much research to learn some facts that global warming experts never seem to mention ... that … the 10 percent to 15 percent decay of the magnetic field surrounding the earth over the last 100 years, is certainly a reasonable explanation for [global warming].”

Who the fuck is this guy?

It’s W.R. BURTON of Houston. I imagine he speaks with a rather heavy Texan accent. And he is by no means a scientists.

For those who haven’t heard about the report that W.R. is referring, please read about it. This report, issued last week by more than 100 international scientists, gives 90% certainty that humans caused global warming. It also describes a future earth so bleak and grim that I imagine many people would reconsider bringing children into the world.

Major newspapers like The New York Times, The Washington Post and The L.A. Times ran editorials urging the Bush Administration to take immediate action to fight global warming.

Two other newspapers—The Wall Street Journal and The New York Post—criticized the findings of this report dubbing the scientists “politically motivated.” The Post’s editorial (the Post is owned by Rupert Murdoch, who also owns Fox News) becomes so outrageous its conclusions are almost laughable.

The Bush Administration expressed support for the report, but ultimately said it would not join an international body comprised of nearly 50 nations that plan to curb emissions and battle global warming. The U.S. joins China and India as two other nations refusing to join this international body.

The U.S., by the way, accounts for one-third of the world’s greenhouse emissions. The U.S., by the way, has a fraction of the world’s population. Don’t you feel special? (Check out this BBC in depth report on global warming.)

U.S. Energy Secretary Sam Bodham had this to say, "We are a small contributor when you look at the rest of the world. It's really got to be a global discussion."

"We're very pleased with it. We're embracing it. We agree with it," Bodman continued. “Human activity is contributing to changes in our Earth's climate and that issue is no longer up for debate."

According to MSNBC.com, Bodham reiterated the administration's opposition to mandatory caps on the emission of carbon dioxide, a greenhouse gas produced naturally and by coal-fired power plants and petroleum-fueled vehicles, among other sources.

Do me a favor and type “Secretary of Energy Sam Bodham” and “polluter” into a Google search … What do you find … Before joining Bush’s cabinet he was CEO of Cabot Corporation, which under Bodham’s tenure was continually ranked among the top 5 polluters in the state of Texas.

That story floods the Internet. Numerous environmental groups (including The Sierra Club) and progressive magazines published stories and reports on Bodham’s record of pollution. Progressive journalist Jason Leopold has written several well-researched articles about Bodman’s career with Cabot.

However, you won’t find that story in any of the mainstream media outlets. CNN.com, for example, said this about Bodman when it first reported on his appointment to secretary of energy: “An engineer and one-time professor at MIT, Bodman has also been president of an investment firm and head of an industrial company.”

Head of an industrial company, huh? No mention of the industrial company’s record as a big-time polluter.

The Bodham example proving yet again that in order to be a Bush appointee you really have to be a fuck-up. (Or as John Stewart put it, “Play tennis with the president.”)

Sorry about that one, unborn children.

'Not gay' Haggard celebrates with meth-fueled massage

2007-02-06T09:01:00.000-08:00

In a triumphant moment in the fight between straights and gays, the disgraced reverend Ted Haggard (right), whose hard fall from grace resulted from his homosexual and drug activity with a gay prostitute, pronounced himself “completely heterosexual” over the weekend.

The news was heralded on high by one of the four ministers providing Haggard with intensive counseling. The minister said that following this guidance Haggard believes he is a born again “pussy hound.”

“If God wanted me to have sex with men, He wouldn’t have given me hemorrhoids,” Haggard told a gaggle of reporters Monday. “Because He did—and because I hate the smell of shit on my penis—I have renounced the devil and all things gay."

Later, Haggard elaborated on his statement of “all things gay” by indicating he plans to stop drinking non-alcoholic O’Doul’s, end long hunting trips with just one male friend and quit listening to his wife’s concern.

Church officials claiming omnipotence said Haggard’s homosexual encounters were limited to “some real steamy” experiences with Mike Jones, a self-described male prostitute. They referred to these experiences as “acting out.”

“How is a God-fearing man supposed to resist the temptations of a salacious and, frankly, well-built middle aged man?” Church elders asked reporters. “This closely mirrors the unbelievable temptations faced by Catholic priests—how on God’s green earth are they supposed to control themselves around cherubic young boys?”

Haggard resigned as president of the National Association of Evangelicals last year after allegations of sexual misconduct surfaced. He was also forced out from the 14,000 New Life Church that he founded years ago in his basement after Jones alleged Haggard paid him for sex and sometimes used methamphetamine when they were together. Haggard, who is married, has publicly admitted to ''sexual immorality.'' The reverend's relationship with Jones began with a deep massage, according to reports.

According to sources familiar with the church (who asked to remain anonymous), Haggard intimated he plans to spend the next several days celebrating his rediscovered heterosexuality with "a little pep powder rub down.”

Members of the Christian Right praised Haggard’s announcement as bringing the world one step closer to eradicating homosexuality. This announcement startled some mainstream Christians, who recalled last year’s Baltimore Sun article about a leaked memo from the National Association of Evangelicals that described this anti-homosexuality campaign as “The Final Solution.”

I believe in empty gestures

2007-02-05T09:27:00.000-08:00

I was shushed yesterday during the moment of silence observed before the Super Bowl. For those who don’t remember, the moment of silence was observed in order to honor the victims of the recent severe weather in central Florida.

Shortly afterwards, President Bush vowed to launch a war on tornadoes.

It was me ladyfriend, Sally, who shushed me. I wasn’t saying anything particularly important or clever—just my usual nonsense—when the silence began and Sally said, “SHHHHH,” while placing a figure over my mouth.

I complied and then afterwards began critiquing the moment of silence, at which point I was shushed again, this time for the National Anthem. (Not only was I shushed, but my hat was pulled off my head.) Certainly, as the announcers pointed out, there is really no better way to honor America than by listening to Billy Joel sing the “Star Spangled Banner.”

Did anyone else hear the fan scream, “Play ‘Piano Man.’”

After several long minutes, the silence concluded and the song ended and finally, finally I was able to critique the moment of silence.

The moment of silence—especially in this case—is an empty gesture. Someone over a loud speaker, whose booming voice resembles that of God, tells us to quiet down to honor the victims of severe weather. We Americans take a moment from our busy schedules of drinking, celebrating and reveling in our own consumerism to honor those who were unfortunate enough to get in the way of a tornado.

The silence ends. Everyone claps. The games begin. The billion or so people observing that moment of silence feel good about themselves and quickly—as the pyrotechnics begin—forget about it (and the victims) entirely.

What was the point, really, of this empty gesture?

It’s much like the network showing the troops in Iraq—we scream and yell and cheer and feel a rush of patriotism and pride and amorism and feel sorry for those men as they give these truly gut wrenching hellos to their families back at home.

The Baghdad feed ends; we return to our celebrating—none the wiser thanks to it. Meanwhile, the soldiers watch the game and then head out on patrol.

What would be more effective is if the reporter introduced the troops and then started pointing to individual soldiers saying, “This one will die. That one will die. This one will lose his legs. This group here is going to be completely fucked in the head when they return. Now back to you guys in the studio.”

Talk about a moment of silence.

Instead of simply observing a moment of silence or cheering for our troops abroad someone or something should act. Think about the power not of a moment of silence but of an announcement saying: “Five Super Bowl advertisers sacrificed the $2.6 million they planned to spend on advertising and instead donated it toward reconstruction and rebuilding of the battered areas in Florida.”

Talk about good advertising.

How about instead of just cheering for those troops, we help bring them home? Set aside 15 minutes of pre-game viewing to write a letter or email, or sign a petition letting our leaders in Washington know we aren’t gonna take this shit anymore.

But that kind of goes against what it means to be an American these days, doesn’t it?

Maybe I’m just pissed about the Bears losing and my friend Billy’s commercial not being chosen as the winner of Doritos Crash the Super Bowl contest.

Maybe.

Today I am a Celebrity

2007-01-24T13:30:00.000-08:00

I planned to write about the president's State of the Union address and piggy-back it with a little something about the sexual misadventures of the Israeli president.

However, that must all wait.

I am a celebrity today.

Chicago Sun-Times columnist Richard Roper featured me in his column today. I wrote him a brief letter months ago and he finally published it.

I am walking on air.

Google This

2007-01-23T07:29:00.000-08:00

Google fucked me.

Not literally, of course—but pretty darn close.

For the past two weeks I’ve planned a Ready Bare Chested redesign. The relaunch of this slick new blog was to happen yesterday (Monday).

Since blogspot.com was apparently acquired by Google I spent part of the weekend attempting to configure readybarechested.blogspot.com with my Google account.

I thought I was successful and my new blogging life was to begin first thing Monday morning. Then, on Monday morning the emails came pouring in (two, actually).

“What’s goin on? Why can’t I get on Ready Bare Chested.” Read one such email.

Another email later in the day said, “What’s up with the blog? When I tried to log on I got rerouted to some animal porn site.”

It was an unexpected, yet delightful surprise for that reader.

So I spent the afternoon attempting to fix this problem (and ogling bestiality sites). I pored over the directions Google provides for reconfiguring your blogsite.

Part of this reconfiguration involved switching my blogspot.com account to the domain name, which was purchased for me last year, http://www.readybarechested.com/. That’s right, I’m big time now.

Apparently, however, Google was not redirecting readers to http://www.readybarechested.com/, but instead to some bestiality site.

The directions Google provides are impossible to understand. They are written by programmers for programmers. If I had a graduate’s degree in computer science I might have had more success.

I do not.

Have a graduate’s degree in computer science, that is.

Nor a bachelors degree.

My degree is in history, which aside from the occasional crossword puzzle is a useless degree. (But thanks anyway mom and dad for dishing out the tens of thousands of dollars for my education.)

At the end of these impossible Google directions they provide a brief questionnaire asking, “Did you find this helpful.” And then two boxes: yes or no.
I emphatically clinked the “no” box.

And therein lies the problem with modern technology. How does one emphatically clink a “no” box?

If it were a written questionnaire I could take my #2 pencil and scratch a hard X into the box. Then, under the box, I could write “FUCK YOU NERDS.”

But no, I was reduced—humiliated actually—into simply checking the “no” box.

It’s like violently hanging up on someone with a cell phone.

“Well, fuck you you bastard!” I would scream and then delicately click the END button.

Or, if I have a flip phone, snap the phone shut.

What’s more accurate is I would start to yell at the operator and just before hitting my stride and screaming “fuck you,” the connection would quit and I’d be reduced to saying, “hello, hello, are you there? OK, you’re there? Alright, what I was saying was fuck … Hello, hello, aw shit … Fuck it.”

Today is Your Last Chance to Vote

2007-01-19T05:55:00.000-08:00

Have you voted today for Billy Federighi's "Mouse Trap" commercial at www.doritos.com?

Well, today (January 19) is your last chance.

So please, visit the Doritos website and click on "Crashing the Super Bowl." From there watch "Mousetrap," the commercial Billy created. Then register for a Yahoo account--if you don't already have one--and vote for his commercial.

If Billy wins the contest his commercial will air during the Super Bowl.

And freedom will ring in Iraq.

A Stale Plan that will only Result in more Loss

2007-01-10T19:58:00.000-08:00

Some thoughts on President Bush's speech Wednesday night concerning the future of Iraq.

Have you been voting for my friend Billy's commercial? If not, visit the Doritos website and click on "Crashing the Super Bowl." From there watch "Mousetrap," the commercial Billy created. Then register for a Yahoo account--if you don't already have one--and vote for his commercial. If Billy wins the contest the commercial will air during the superbowl.

President Bush this evening stressed the need for "victory" in Iraq, explaining why the current efforts have failed and accepting responsibility for the Iraqi SNAFU. He then laid out a far reaching plan for success that is broad in scope but narrow in originality. The president wants more troops (20,000), more money (???) and more time (???) from America in order to win in Iraq. Success in Iraq, Bush pointed out, will not resemble the triumphs the U.S. has seen in the past.

"Victory will not look like the ones our fathers and grandfathers achieved," Bush said. "There will be no surrender ceremony on the deck of a battleship. "

The morning's headlines will trumpet the call for more troops and Bush's "my bad" for the blundering in Iraq. The papers will hopefully also show--or at least question--exactly how much all of this will cost.

But what this plan really is is more of the same.

2 redeeming points in a mess of drivel

One of the the only two bright ideas Bush mentioned--and in the contexts of war these ideas are really no-brainers--is the securing of Baghdad's neighborhoods. According to the president, American and Iraqi troops have in the past successfully routed insurgents from neighborhoods in the Iraqi capital. However, as soon as these forces leave said neighborhood the "killers" return. A strengthened U.S. military force will prevent this, Bush said, because American and Iraqi troops will remain in these neighborhoods after they are secured.

It's a good idea, but one we should have been doing in 2003 when the war began.

The president's other bright idea was his goal to rebuild Iraqi's infrastructure by tapping the Iraqis. Again, this is something that should have been done as soon as we took control of Baghdad in 2003. How is democracy supposed to thrive in a country that lacks electricity and running water, not to mention schools and hospitals.

Same old shit

Beyond these details, however, Bush simply said more of the same. His administration has completely messed up the way we contract jobs to Iraq, so why should we trust him with that responsibility now?

He also wants more involvement from the Iraqi Army, which is--again--something the president has stressed since day one. Does the president believe that now that he's ordained it on television it will magically happen?

Also, as opposed to potentially working with Iran and Syria--which would be a true challenge, but one that could reap huge benefits--the president wants to "interupt the flow of support from Iran and Syria" to Iraqi insurgents. This sounds to me like an exhalation of the war in Iraq to a regional war involving Iran and Syria.

Bush only mentioned diplomacy when talking about his plan to foster better border relations between Iraq and Turkey (Turkey is an American ally) and ensure countries like Iran do not attack our "interests" in the Middle East (read: Israel, oil fields).

He didn't once suggest bringing our European allies like Germany or France--not to mention NATO as a whole--into the fold.

This method of diplomacy will only further alienate us from both Iraq's neighbors in the Middle East and basically every other nation in the world.

With the president's plan, America will lose

Tim Russert, of NBC News, stressed that Bush bet his presidency on this war three years ago and in this speech he made it double or nothing.

With this plan America will fail. And that's tragic.

When we are trying to pacifiy a nation--not conquer an established enemy--exhalation is not the answer. History tells us that ... just look at Nixon's efforts to end the Vietnam War by exhalating U.S. involvement and spreading the war to Laos and Cambodia.

Bush's "new" strategy will cost this country more lives and more money, which he admitted during his speech. However, with a tired plan like this the losses are not worth it. Congress should strike funding for this plan and send the president back to the drawing board.

If not, then the war will contine, the casualties will rise and the money will keep dwindling. It will only end once a new president takes office--likely a democrat--and he (or she) ends the war. That conclusion will not look anything like our father's or grandfathers victory, nor Bush's idea of victory. In that case, the republicans can blame the democrats for American's "defeat" in Iraq.

Even though with this plan America has already lost.

Vote Early, Vote Often.

2007-01-08T08:05:00.000-08:00

My friend Billy is semi-finalist in a directing contest. He is one of five directors vying for an opportunity to have their commercial aired during the Super Bowl.

You can help his commercial win.

As some of you might remember from an earlier blog, Billy -- who is an aspiring director -- entered a contest with Doritos. Billy (and his directing partner Brett) filmed a Doritos commercial along with hundreds of other directors. Their video was selected by the Doritos people as one of the top five.

The public is now voting for the winner. And, again, the winning commercial is aired during the Super Bowl.

So please, help Billy win this contest. You can vote by visiting the Doritos website. From their click on the "Crash the Super Bowl" icon, where you can view the five semi-finalist commercials.

Billy's commercial is entitled MOUSE TRAP.

To vote, you must first either have a Yahoo account or create one. Yes, creating a Yahoo account might take a minute, but please follow through with this.

Once you have that Yahoo account, please vote for MOUSE TRAP.

You can vote once per day from any computer.

So please, vote early and vote often.

And I promise Billy will forget about all of us once he's famous.

World Premier

2007-01-05T07:37:00.000-08:00

More anticipated than the debut of Suri Cruise or Shiloh Jolie-Pitt, here are the first ever pictures of Sophia Marie Johnson -- daughter of Missy, me ladyfriend's sister, and Randall Johnson. The photos are courtesy of me ladyfriend Sally.

Just moments after her birth.

Meeting mom for the first time.

The proud--and apparently surprised--papa with his equally surprised daughter.

Sophia sleeps.

Father Knows Best, part II

2007-01-04T21:59:00.000-08:00

A couple weeks ago (Thursday, December 21) I blogged about my father's mantra of "buy American," one I never understood as a child then learned to appreciate -- but not act on -- as an adult.

As noted above, I titled that blog, "Father Knows Best," which reminded me of another bit of -- for lack of a better word -- advice he once gave me as an eight-year-old.

My father is a staunch Republican. (Although I think he broke ranks in 1992 and cast his ballot for independent candidate Ross Perot. However, this is unconfirmed and potentially libelous.) I, on the other hand, am a staunch Democrat. In fact, I'll go one better and call myself a proud liberal. My political affiliation is much to the chagrin of my family, particularly -- I believe -- my father, who has tried his best to influence my politics even at a young age.

I would describe my dad's view of Democrats, beyond many other less than flattering terms, as crazy "tax and spend" politicians. This was never more evident than in 1988 when then Vice-President George H.W. Bush ran against Democratic challenger Michael Dukakis. As an eight-year-old I knew nothing about politics. But I did know something about names and since Dukasis and me shared the same first name I liked him. One late summer evening as my dad sat in front of the kitchen t.v. watching the two candidates debate, I approached my father and declared, "I hope Michael Dukakis is president."

My father broke his gaze from the television and stared at me mortified. I felt his anger and feared the verbal lashing I was about to incure as if I'd recently disobeyed my mom and she had said, "wait til your father comes home," and he had just gotten home.

"Michael," he began, "do you like the toys we buy you?"

I nodded.

"Well, you can kiss those toys good-bye if Michael Dukakis becomes president because we won't be able to afford them anymore."

That sentence put the fear of God in me. I nodded in compliance and walked away, breaking my early affiliation with the Democractic Party -- a party that seemingly wanted to deprive me of the right to have toys. I prayed George H.W. Bush would win. On election night 1988, I lingered at the stairs to my bedroom and looked at my father as he watched election night coverage. Standing there in my pajamas, believing the fate of my childhood hung in the balance, I asked my father, "Is George Bush gonna win, Dad?"

He looked at me and answered, "I think so Michael. I think so."

I was beyond relieved, as if I was just granted clemency from a life of poverty. That night I went to bed a happy republican.

Four years later my dad's words still lingered in my head: "Do you like the toys we buy you?" Another presidential election cycle had come and things looked grim for my executive Santa Claus as he squared off against this smug Bill Clinton fellow. I was 12 and although my taste in toys had changed, I still coveted them constantly and feared George H.W. Bush's ousting would prevent me from receiving any more. So, on election night 1992, I again lingered by the stairs to my bedroom and looked at my father as he watched the television coverage. This time my father looked grim and even a bit angry.

"How does it look, Dad?"

"Not good, Michael," he said shaking his head, "not good."

That night I went to bed a frightened young republican. When I woke up we had a new president, a democrat, which was the first time in my life I had ever experienced a democratic president. I feared the worst. And then something unexpected occurred. As President Clinton's tenure began and stretched into a second term I didn't notice an absence of toy. In fact, it might be safe to say I received more and better presents than when the kindly looking Bush was president.

Night after night I went to sleep a confused young republican.

Then, one morning in my late teens I woke up a democrat. My father's early attempts to convince me otherwise, while at-first highly effective, ultimately failed.

Although I suppose if and when I ever have children I will use the same approach, except of course it will be the other way around and much to my chagrin he or she will probably wake up one morning a staunch republican. These things, I suppose, go in cycles and that will be a proud day for my father.

Sophia Marie Johnson

2007-01-02T16:09:00.000-08:00

Earlier today, between noon and 1pm, me ladyfriend Sally was made an aunt for the third time. Sally's sister, Missy, gave birth to a baby girl, Sophia Marie* Johnson. She is 8 pounds 3 ounces. According to Sally, who was in the room for the birth, Sophia Marie has small amounts of dark, wavy hair. Her eyes appear blue (although I've heard most babies' eyes are at first blue) and she enjoys sucking her thumb.

Because Sophia Marie was born late we joked that she is a little diva. Early accounts could attest to this notion. Sally said Sophia Marie emits this "little chirpy cry" until all the attention in the room refocuses on her and then she goes silent and pretty. Well-done Sophia Marie. And well-done Missy for having the baby.

Welcome to the world Sophia Marie.

*Sally's middle name is also Marie.

Farewell Cobra Commander

2007-01-02T13:25:00.000-08:00

Pardon the cliche, but today's blog may seem a day late and a dollar short.* It concerns Saddam Hussein. I began writing it December 27 when I first read that the ousted dictator could be executed in the next 30 days. I finished about half the blog and figured I could revisit it in the next couple days. That was last Wednesday. On Saturday I woke up and found out Saddam had been hung, or hanged -- I'm never sure about that one. I was sad -- not for the death of an evil dictator -- but for the timeliness of this blog. Nevertheless, I have finished it ... a now posthumous remembrance of one American's trivial memory of Saddam Hussein.

I am firmly against the death penalty.

Still, that stance doesn't exclude me from believing that the world could be a better place if we had or did eliminate some people. For example, Adolph Hitler's execution -- had he not killed himself -- would likely have been worthwhile, along with numerous other tyrants, murderers, rapists, pop singers, rich socialite heiresses, etc.

Before I procede, let me again stress that I'm not advocating execution. If it was put to a vote I would vote against it. Nevertheless, just as the Catholic Church might look the other way for certain divorces, I too might look the other way for certain executions.

According to the news, ousted Iraqi leader Saddam Hussein is set to be hung inside the next 30 days. From a pro-death penalty viewpoint, he certainly meets the criteria for such punishments having been found guilty of directly ordering the deaths of hundreds of Iraqi men.

Whether from a pro or anti-death penalty stance, I believe his death may not bring this country the closure or deservance it may feel Hussein's execution will bring. What will the United States do without Saddam? The black to America's white (or White to America's black, whichever you prefer). The bad to America's perceived good. He is the Rolling Stones to the Beatles. The Beta to VHS. The Turbo 64 to Nintendo. Sure we've still got Osama Bin Laden (probably) and for at least a little bit longer Fidel Castro and perhaps today's most in vogue tyrant Kim Il Jong III of North Korea along with countless others.

But Saddam has been our national obsession since the fall of the Soviet Union. He brought America and the world's ire during the first Gulf War. He became the butt of numerous jokes (see: films like South Park: Bigger, Longer, Uncut and Hot Shots; and at least one song, "Bombs Over Baghdad"). Hussein was Clinton's whipping boy when he needed to refocus America's attention abroad. And, of course, he was George W. Bush's arch nemesis having planned the assassination of Dubya's daddy -- an offense any red-blooded Texan would vow to avenge, especially one who has the world's most powerful military at his discretion.

There will be a certain emptiness without him. Who will be the root of our benign fears? Politicians and reporters were particularly skilled at brewing America's fears and insecurities over Saddam. He was evil. He stood in front of thousands of his countrymen and fired a shotgun into the air. But was he ever really a threat to our national security? Did we ever really have to fear Saddam toppling our democracy? During the day we could worry about his intentions, but we could crawl into bed at night and never lose sleep over his evil scheming.

With Saddam gone our armchair fears will turn to actual insecurities. As we look at the world now don't the other members of Bush's so-called "Axis of Evil" seem so much more frightening?Iran and North Korea are in various stages of developing nuclear weapons, meanwhile Saddam's army fell in days to the United States. For that reason he was always our trump card. If we needed a country to invade, Iraq was always there for the taking. Saddam was the fat girl that we always knew we could have sex with and therefore boilstered our self-esteem as we went after greater conquests. Then, George W. Bush decided to have sex with the fat girl after we found out we couldn't capture the bell of the ball -- Osama Bin Laden. And the worst part is ... we got the fat girl pregnant.

I was born in 1980 so I remember elements of the Cold War. As a child I knew communism and the Soviet Union were bad. I understood that the freedoms I enjoyed as a child -- shit, childhood in general -- would be squashed if Russia beat us. In 1988 I wanted to be a professional baseball player. If the communists won I could forget baseball. Those Russkies would probably make me become a butcher or something. And if all these worries weren't enough, I then saw Red Dawn and the scene where Russian troops parachute into rural Michigan and takeover the school scared the shit out of me ... still does.

Then the Soviet Union collapsed and with it my fears. For a short time -- about one year -- we thought it was Pax Romana, an endless time of peace, and we were jubilant. That jubilation ended when the television and the kindly George Bush told us Iraq -- led by Saddam Hussein -- invaded the tiny nation of Kuwait. I had never heard of Kuwait, but this invasion sounded very, very bad and suddenly we were at war. Not an idealogical war like the one we'd just won, but a real war with missiles and airplanes and ground troops and a very catchy name: Gulf War I "Operation Desert Storm."** This Saddam Hussein was Cobra Commander and America and its allies were fighting on the side of good to free the poor, poor people of Kuwait.

It was kind of a let down when I found out we actually went to war to free oil prices and the poor, poor people of Kuwait weren't really that poor after all.

That was our time, 1991, to oust Saddam and thankfully -- from a strategic point-of-view -- we stopped short of heading into Baghdad. Then, a dozen years later America "jumped the shark" and decided to take down an evil-doer from the 1990s, which would be like one of the Networks reprising Growing Pains.

And now look at Saddam -- bearded and defeated, almost grandfatherly in his demeanor, well dressed and crazy as a loon. His crime against Iraq was immense and profound; meanwhile, his crime against America was simply bad timing. Had he chosen to invade Kuwait in the 1980s, while we were supporting him in the Iran-Iraq war, the Middle East might be an entirely different place.

So, after all that, I say hang the bastard, especially if it brings healing to the hundreds of thousands of families that were victimized by Saddam's tyranical rule. But, as Americans, let's not think for a second that killing the fat girl will in any way rid ourselves of the responsibility of rearing her bastard child.

Happy New Year.

*That's what she said.
**The sequel to Gulf War I "Operation Desert Storm" is Gulf War II "Operation Enduring Freedom," an epic and dramatic saga on par with The Empire Strikes Back. There will, of course, be a third installment to the trilogy and perhaps even a prequel or two or three.

A Christmas Time Potpourri

2006-12-27T13:13:00.000-08:00

Merry Christmas. Happy Holidays. A happy and healthy New Year. Hope yours was lovely. Mine certainly was. I spent the holidays proper in Chicago with the family and me ladyfriend, Sally. Prior to Christmas Eve and Christmas Day, Sally and I enjoyed an early holiday in northern Minnesota … Duluth … Sally’s hometown.

Santa gave me a new printer, which was very nice of him. Although I think my favorite present was a tin of Slim Jims that Sally gave me.

But, speaking of Duluth, while we were in the North Country I visited my favorite Northland watering hole, The Lost Tavern, which is exactly what you would imagine a northern Minnesota hole-in-the-wall to look and feel like: tucked away and tiny, warm, plenty of hardwood, uber-cheap drinks, Bob Seger and The Silver Bullet Band on the juke box, friendly people and plenty of “ehs.” The first of two times I visited The Lost Tavern I was with Sally’s future brother-in-law, Randy, a rather strapping 40-year-old road construction worker with arms that are literally bigger than my thighs. (He does 1,500 pushups daily. Trust me, I’ve seen him do them.) We were both sipping vodka when a local police officer walked in and told Randy that one of his brake lights was burnt out.

“Oh, hey there Randy,” the cop began, “you know one of your brake lights is burnt out?”

“Oh yeah sure,” Randy replied.

“You should probably get that fixed.”

Then the cop and his wife bellied up to the bar. After a few minutes the cop leaned over and offered us some jokes.

“Hey fellas, you know what a battery and a woman’s anus have in common?” The 50ish police officer asked.

We both shook our heads.

“You know you shouldn’t, but you can’t help and lick both of them.”

We chuckled, admittedly somewhat alarmed by the joke.

“I got another one,” the cop grinned. “So, three ducks walk into a bar. The first waddles up to the bar and hops onto a stool. The bartender asks, ‘What’s your name.’

“The duck says, ‘Huey.’”

“’And how was your day, Huey?’ The bartender asks.

“‘Oh pretty good,’ Huey says. ‘I was in and out of puddles all day, which is pretty good if you’re a duck.’ Huey orders his drink and waddles away.

“The second duck then waddles up to the bar and the bartender again asks, ‘What’s your name?’

“’My name is Louie,’ the duck answers.

“‘And how was your day, Louie?’ The bartender asks.

“‘Oh pretty good,’ Louie says, ‘I was in and out of puddles all day, which is pretty good if you’re a duck.’ Then Louie orders his drinks and waddles away.

Finally the third duck waddles up to the bar and the bartender says, ‘And let me guess, your name is Dewey.’

“’No,’ the duck replies. ‘My name is Puddles.’”

In other news, I saw Rocky Balboa last night with Sally, my friends from L.A. Chris and Billy, Billy’s brother Dante and his friend, Scotty O. At first I was curious why Billy and Dante Federighi, who by the way are Italian, wanted to see the film. Then I recalled Rocky’s nickname, “The Italian Stallion,” and it all became clear.

The best review I can give of the film comes from my friend Chris, who said, “You’d have to be dead inside not to enjoy that movie.”

I concur.

Plus, the whole time I watched the movie I chuckled being reminded of the old Eddie Murphy skit involving the hijinks that occur after an Italian sees a Rocky picture.

Finally, perhaps it’s the holidays or maybe I’m just getting soft, but I’ve had some emotional movie experiences recently. On Christmas Eve, Sally and I watched It’s A Wonderful Life, an annual viewing. By the movie’s end I was blubbering like Sally after watching Little Women. Then, just today, I caught The Family Stone on cable. (Please note that I saw the movie last year with my parents and thought it was so-so.) This afternoon I really only half-watched it as I did a crossword puzzle. However, my inattention didn’t seem to matter when the final scenes approached because once again I found myself blubbering. I suppose it happens to the best of us.

Beyond It’s A Wonderful Life and now, apparently, The Family Stone, my other sure cry is A River Runs Through It. That one gets me every time.

Father Knows Best

2006-12-21T07:34:00.000-08:00

For as long as I can remember, my dad's mantra has been "fuck you!"

Wait, that's actually his motto.

Sorry, let's try that again.

For as long as I can remember, my dad's mantra has been "buy American." He would rant about the "crap" my brother -- well, particularly me -- bought from China, like plastic toys and Nike sneakers, and cuss out Japanese cars and electronics. (As if a G.I. Joe-obsessed eight-year-old had any idea or care about the international impact of his buying $1 action figures.) Meanwhile, the old man was kicking around in New Balance shoes (long before they became popular) and Levis jeans. When Levis got a little too trendy for my dad he switched to Wranglers. His cars of choice are always American and vary in style from Cadillacs and Lincolns to Cameros and Corvettes. I imagine my mother's decision to start driving a BMW was met with some shock by the old man, but I think he's come to accept the car mostly because it's German and, well, he's German so it all kind of comes out in the wash, I suppose.

I've lacked the zeal of my father when it comes to buying American, mainly, I suppose, out of laziness and apathy. As a youngster I viewed his buy American enthusiasm with skepticism, now I've come to appreciate it. Still, it hasn't necessarily inspired me to take up the cause.

However, Wednesday evening I caught an episode of Frontline, which is public television's answer to Dateline or 20/20. It isn't paid for by flashy advertisement so the program has quite a bit of freedom to tackle heady subjects that the networks would normally shy away from for fear it would scare off potential advertisers. As a result the show doesn't rely on gimmicky stunts like nabbing sexual predators (not that nabbing sexual predators is necessarily wrong, but it isn't the hard hitting journalism of 1970s Woodward and Bernstein).

Wednesday's program focused on Wal-Mart, questioning if the company is "good for America." Frontline's results were shocking. Basically, it showed that by driving costs down for the consumer Wal-Mart is forcing manufacturers out of America and to places like China. Consequently, middle-class Americans are deprived of manufacturing jobs and the trade deficit between the U.S. and China grows grows larger every day. The current trade deficit between the two nations is in the hundreds of billions. This disparity means the U.S. exports roughly five to 10 billion dollars worth of products to China, while the Chinese export hundreds of billions of dollars to America. The vast majority of American products exported to China are raw goods like cotton and rawhide. The Chinese, in turn, make those products into t-shirts and shoes for the American consumer. The largest purchaser of these Chinese products is Wal-Mart.

Here's an example of just one way Wal-Mart and other bix box retailers hurt and embarass the American worker. Take for example a 50-something man in Ohio. He has worked in a factory his whole life making televisions. His father before him worked at this job. The man earned roughly $60,000 annually with benefits. Big box stores like Wal-Mart, Best Buy and Target come along demanding lower prices for its televisions, which is great for the American consumer. However, soon the companies that manufacture these televisions cannot afford to sell them at such a low price and continue to make the product in the United States. So, the company closes its U.S. plant and moves it to China where manufacturing costs are a fraction of what they are in America. This man is now unemployed and only trained to do one thing -- work in a factory. Soon, Wal-Mart moves into town on the empty lot where the television factory once stood. In order to support his family the man must take a job at Wal-Mart earning -- at best -- half of what he once did in the factory. And here's the kicker, he has to go to work each day knowing his current employer, Wal-Mart, is the one that fucked him.

It's all very enlightening. Check it out at www.frontline.com.

I guess the old man was right all along ... with both his mantra and his motto:

"Buy American!"

and

"Fuck You" Wal-Mart.*

*"Fuck You" Wal-Mart, as denoted by the placement of the quotation marks, is not something -- by my knowledge -- my dad has actually said.

My Guest Posting

2006-12-19T10:25:00.000-08:00

Check out my friend Jeff Schwister's blog for a guest posting from ... me. His blog is sports-themed so when Jeff approached me to write a guest column he insisted it be sports related. And it is ... sort of. So, check it out.

http://thedailyscore.blogspot.com/

9 out of 10 doctors agree ... DNA material only makes Ranch dressing more scrumptous

2006-12-16T11:51:00.000-08:00

The sub-headline for an article in Saturday's Chicago Sun-Times ...

"[Student] Allegedly Put Semen In Cafeteria Salad Dressing"

Huh?

Please, read on.

"A Wheaton North High School student is expected to surrender to police Monday on charges that he doctored a bottle of salad dressing in the school cafeteria with his own semen in a practical joke that met with disgust.

"An arrest warrant has been issued for Marco Raphael G. Castro, 17, of unincorporated DuPage County near Wheaton, for attempted aggravated battery and disorderly conduct ...

"Castro allegedly took a bottle of ranch salad dressing from the juniors' and seniors' cafeteria on Dec. 6, went into a restroom, ejaculated into the bottle and returned it to the condiment cart, police said ...

"The contaminated salad dressing could have been used during the final lunch period Dec. 6 and during all five lunch periods on Dec. 7 before all of the dressing containers were routinely sanitized and refilled, according to a statement from Wheaton Warrenville School District 200.

"Supt. Gary T. Catalani said officials have no way of knowing for certain how many children consumed it ...

"Some students thought it was just a rumor. Some laughed; others said they were embarrassed and disgusted. One girl vowed never to eat cafeteria food again."

She will never eat cafeteria food again! (That's my favorite part of the story ... so emphatic and absolute ... I promise she's snarfing fries by Tuesday.)

Oh, and don't worry about the kids, the story also said that it is extremely difficult to contract diseases like HIV or hepatitis through contaminated salad dressing. Which is, I'm sure, a relief for everyone who loves strip joint salad bars.

The youngster might be in trouble with the law, but it's really no problem. Last I heard Paul Newman is buying the rights from him for a new line of dressings.

A Funny Thing Happened On The Way To The Battle ...

2006-12-14T08:05:00.000-08:00

Last night I caught Kingdom of Heaven on cable, which is a pretty good movie. It had come recommended from my Arabic teacher, who said it was a fairly accurate glimpse into life in Jerusalem in the 12th century. Plus, the film is directed by Ridley Scott and written by William Monahan. Although Scott has his fair share of lemons, I'll usually give him the benefit of the doubt since he made movies like Blade Runner, Gladiator and Black Hawk Dawn. Meanwhile, William Monahan's other major writing credit is The Departed (which is actually a co-writing credit since the film is a remake).

Speaking of Monahan, the writer, this film, Kingdom of Heaven, contains several fighting scenes that pit one army or team of knights against another similar group. As you can imagine, before at least two of these fight scenes Orlando Bloom, who actually does a pretty good job in this picture, delivers a moving and inspiring speech before he is to lead men into battle.

You know this speech, it's used in nearly every violent movie set prior to the industrial revolution, which means pre-18th century Europe and pre-1865 America as well as pre-20th century East Asia.* (For example, Braveheart, Glory and The Last Samurai.) The army's leader, usually atop a mighty steed, rides back and forth across his line of apprehensive, yet willing men who are only moments away from going into battle and likely dying. This leader must summon some kind of profound inspiration to get these men -- who are often untrained peasants or slaves -- to fight hard and courageously. He must also prepare them for death by shrouding it in bravery and nobility. He finishes with some kind of catchy and chilling phrase like, "They may take our lives, but they will never take ... our freedom!"**

A couple of things here ... While this speech seems very impromptu, I wonder if the speechmaker was actually up all night thinking about it. Jotting down notes, scratching out things that didn't work, standing in front of the mirror working on his delivery. Can't you imagine him at a table, candlelight illuminating the paper and quill, as he writes, "Blood of our forefathers" and thinks, Yeah that works pretty well. Then he scribbles, "Won't die in vain," and underlines it with satisfaction, while crossing out “your life really isn’t worth living anyway.” Or maybe, as the Gettysburg Address legend goes,*** the leader was on his way to the battle that morning. He’d just finished his coffee when he realized he had to say something and ended up jotting down something brilliant on a napkin.

When I shared this thought with me ladyfriend, Sally, she looked at me straight-faced and said, “I think they just make it up on the spot.”

I think I would have problems with this aspect of leadership, which is probably the whole reason I avoided any military service.**** It would be the morning of a great battle and I’d be atop a horse preparing for the fight when my second-in-command would nudge me and say, “I think you should say something to the men.”

“What? Like a general announcement about lunch service?”

“No. Something inspiring, sir.”

“Oh, right.”

Then, feeling the impact of such words, I would likely have a panic attack and not make the battle altogether. Later, around the watercooler, the warriors would ask, “Did our leader succumb to an arrow would or come down with the plague.”

“No,” they would answer, “he had a debilitating panic attack.”

Or, if I did muster the courage to speak, it’d probably go like this …

I’d ride back and forth across the line of soldiers, stop my mighty steed in the middle of the line and say, “So a funny thing happened to me on the way to the battle this morning … But seriously, who here is from Devonshire? Alright, I’ll speak slowly. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, it must be jet lag. I just flew in and man my arms are killing me.” The drummer boy would follow this with a rim shot. “But anyway, last night as I prepared myself for this mighty endeavor, I said aloud, ‘This is not a joyous occasion. We have come to this soft, hallowed place for the proliferation of our ancestors. Not because it is our choice, but out of necessity.’ Wait, that’s what she said.”

*These scenes also appear in World War II movies, which is the exception that proves the rule. Following each continent’s industrial revolution wars went from what appeared to many to be noble and brave acts to bloody messes fought for colonial and imperial reasons – purely economic basically – where the leaders essentially moved chess pieces from far away while the fighting men died in vain. Also, in the industrialized world there are machine guns and mortars, tanks, land mines and guerrilla fighters. With World War II, though, generations then and now viewed the whole thing as a worthy and just endeavor to eliminate fascism. Despite the notion that its root cause was economics and imperialism.

**We now know that in Mel Gibson’s famous speech as William Wallace in Braveheart the “they” he was referring to is actually the Jews.

***It has always been rumored that Abraham Lincoln scribbled the Gettysburg Address on the back of an envelope while on his way to the battle site. This is not true. He actually spent considerable time preparing for this famous speech.

****Let’s be honest. This has nothing to do with my avoidance of military service. The real reasons have more to do with cowardice, laziness and apathy. So thank God for those who actually serve.

Accidental Humor

2006-12-13T07:23:00.000-08:00

Sally and I were recently watching The Real World: Denver (the show's 18th season!). I was an avid Real World viewer through Seattle (season 7). I did not much care for the Boston or Miami seasons (6 and 5, respectively). Although I'm sure many the Real World fan would disagree with me on the Boston one.

Anywho, Sally had never seen the Real World.

Ahem.

Let me say that again ... Sally had never seen the Real World. That is, Sally -- resident queen of reality television -- had never seen the Real World. Upon hearing that information I launched into oratory mode highlighting season highlights early in the show's run, my favorite characters and cities, the groundbreaking sociological experiment the show originally was and why I stopped watching the Real World. I'm sure she found this boring and highly unnecessary; however, considering all the strategic, philosophical, existential and factual lectures regarding Survivor I've experienced with Sally this Real World thing only seemed fair.

While Survivor often pits opposing personalities against one another, which is usually exasperated due to competition, starvation and exhaustion, the Real World assembles some highly compatible and highly volatile young personalities in a house and then makes sure these kids have plenty of access to alcohol, which -- of course -- exasperates the whole situation (i.e., allows for more fighting and fucking).*

I'm way off track. So, Sally and I were watching the Real World: Denver and on this cast are a young gay Christian man and a young straight Christian man. The young straight Christian man doesn't seem to have a problem, at least so far, with the drunk, swearing, whoring roommates but does have a real problem with his fellow (gay) Christian. Sally, who hails from a strict Christian background, and I were appalled by this scenario.

This gay/straight Christian divide was actually highlighted Monday in a New York Times article.

Yeah, that was a lot of words for very little pay-off ... That's what she said!**

*Writer/Critic Chuck Klosterman has the definitive analysis of the Real World in his essay collection: Sex, Drugs and Cocoa Puffs.

**I did not intend for this joke to conclude today's blog. In fact, I did not intend for this joke to be in this blog at all. The joke occurred organically. I wrote, "Yeah, that was a lot of words for very little pay-off" and then the joke just happened. It was quite easy really. I'd have been a comedic moron to ignore such a great and always hilarious follow-up joke.

Back to Work for the Birthday Girl

2006-12-11T20:28:00.000-08:00

Me ladyfriend Sally’s birthday weekend officially ended Sunday evening when the clock struck midnight and I sent her back to work scrubbing floors, shaking down rugs, ironing the linens and hospital cornering the beds.

And, I fooled her and all of you. She is now the proud owner of a basset hound named Mint Julep. (The dog is from South Carolina.)

No, no, I didn’t get her a basset hound – or any living thing for that matter, or anything from south of the Mason-Dixon line – as I insisted numerous times in recent blogs.

Nevertheless, I think she had an enjoyable birthday. At least I’ll ask her once she’s done scrubbing out the bed pans.

It Ain't Nothin' Like A Hound Dog

2006-12-08T08:32:00.000-08:00

After yesterday's blog regarding me ladyfriend's birthday and her birthday wish of a basset hound, which I am not getting her (however, the more I insist she is not getting a basset hound the more she believes I am getting her one ... Or so I thought ...) I was rebuffed once she read the blog, noting that it was humorous, yet she wants me (and all of you) to know -- definitively -- that she is not expecting a basset hound.

Lies, my friends, pure lies.

(Sally, who was reading over my shoulder, just asked if I was lying, which would then prove she is getting a basset hound. When I told her it was she who was lying she sulked away, I'm sure still believing that it's me who is lying.)

This is playing out to be the most elaborate Red Herring in the history of gift giving. Far better than those Brady Bunch or Growing Pains episodes where the birthday boy or girl is ignored all day by his or her loved ones and then -- when the birthday celebrant is deeply forlorn and melancholy -- a surprise party is thrown, check that -- chucked, by said loved ones.

If I was lying and I was -- in fact -- getting her a basset hound then this would be a much better lark. And yet, I promise, I am not lying. She is not getting a basset hound. And yet there I go again, I'm trying so hard to insist she isn't getting a basset hound that it now sounds like I am getting her one.

Really, if I just erased this whole blog and instead wrote about politics or some half-real/half-imagined episode at the bank I'd be much better off.

Shine Your Shoes for a Half-Pence, Guvna?

2006-12-07T08:25:00.000-08:00

So ... A day-and-a-half after writing about the potential graft of Illinois' power companies my power was indescribably shut off ... Just kidding.

The Iraq Study Group released its report yesterday, which I'm sure everyone heard about ad nauseum. While I personally believe many of the recommendations in the report are worthwhile, did anyone really think George W. Bush would listen to someone outside his little circle? He dismissed the report before it was even released. Ah, what nonsense.

The ladyfriend's birthday is this weekend ... Sunday to be exact. She thinks she's getting a puppy ... A basset hound to be exact. The more I insist this is not what I'm buying her, the more she believes I am buying her a basset hound. Therefore, everything is (at least half-jokingly) peppered with, "I wonder how my puppy will fit in here?" Or, when mentioning that she wants to see a movie on her birthday, "I wonder if they'll let me take my puppy into the theater?" It's very charming and cute, but -- after years of guilt trips from my nuclear family -- I can't take disappointment.

It's currently 10 degrees in Chicago. If it were up to me I wouldn't go anywhere today.

Scrubs in syndication is among the best things to happen to me this late Autumn season.

Finally, I saw a good Larry David bit last night. He said, "The closest I ever came to death was the time I masturbated with a 104 degree fever."

Have a lovely day.

He's At It Again

2006-12-05T11:00:00.000-08:00

My friend Billy Federighi, whose name or image appears often on this blog, is at it again ... This time for Doritos. Billy and his "partner," Brett Snider, ahem, I'm sorry, that's "directing partner" (or at least that's what the kids are calling it these days, I guess) have created two commercials for Doritos. The commercials are part of a contest. The winner of this contest has his or her commercial aired during the Super Bowl.

Please visit www.doritos.com. Then, click the icon in the bottom-middle of the screen, which says CRASH THE SUPER BOWL. This icon will take you to a page that informs you that you will be leaving the Doritos website ... Click Yes. Then you are directed to a page with an icon at the top that says, WATCH VIDEOS. Click that. At this point, you will see the contest page that displays hundreds of commercials -- the vast majority of these commercials are poorly made and poorly conceived (in some cases this is a sweeping understatement).

Currently, about two-thirds down this page is Billy and Brett's first commercial, titled MOUSETRAP. The commercial is credited to Billy Federighi. The second commercial the pair made is called SURPRISE! and this is credited to Brett Snider.

Please view these videos and then tell, write, forward the information to friends, family, co-workers, etc.

And beware ... After playing around on this website for roughly 10 minutes I badly, badly wanted some Nacho Cheese Doritos. And you know why that's so disturbing? Because I'm a Cool Ranch guy.

Downstate Under Seige

2006-12-04T10:49:00.000-08:00

About 150,000 Illinoisans and 138,000 St. Louisites were without power this morning, according to The Chicago Tribune. The regions of Illinos afflicted by the outages include central and southern Illinois (not Chicago, which means I'm writing this blog from a toasty apartment). Ameren Corp., which provides power to these areas, has blamed the outages on the ice storm that swept through the region last Friday. Press outlets reported Ameren Corp. as saying it could be up to one week before all power is restored. Considering the temperatures in Illinois -- two weeks before the official start of winter -- are bottoming out at record lows (19 degree high yesterday, 22 degree high today) this power outage is very dangerous.

My friend, Josh, who lives in St. Louis experienced this outage Friday morning before he fled the city to less hostile environs in Chicago. Thankfully, Josh's power was restored earlier in the weekend. This is not the case for many in downstate Illinois, including the state's capital, Springfield, where many residents remain in the dark. In Decatur, IL, among the state's largest cities, 43,000 customers are still without power.

Several counties in Illinois have declared local disasters and are hoping the state will intervene and declare the outages a state disaster. The State of Illinois is currently preparing to ship food to regions hurt by the outage.

Ameren Corp. and ComEd provide electricity to Illinois. ComEd, traditionally, services the northern region of the state -- including Chicago, while Ameren Corp. serves the downstaters. Making headlines recently are these power companies, who are vehemently fighting a proposed statewide electrical rate freeze. These utility companies are dumping millions of dollars into lobbying efforts in Springfield. A decade-long rate freeze is due to expire in January and state lawmakers are scrambling to establish another freeze to shield Illinois residents from a potentially large and economically (for residents) damaging rate hike. The utility companies claim such a rate freeze would bankrupt them and leave the state with poor electrical service ... The kind of service that can't help but allow large blackouts that take days, even up to a week to repair.

I hate to suggest the utilities companies would be so diabolical, however, Springfield -- the anthill for state politicians -- is hurt by the blackout. More importantly, so too are more than one hundred thousand downstate residents. (Without going into a long winded geo-political breakdown of Illinois, downstaters are more rural and often resent those in big city Chicago.) Numerous lawmakers from downstate are calling for this rate freeze, however, perhaps the most vocal proponent of the rate freeze is State Representative Michael Madigan, an old school south side Chicago politician. By holding downstate hostage, northern Illinois -- particularly Chicago -- will either fold to, or be beaten by the clammering downstate residents and lawmakers will make regarding the delivery of power to homes and businesses. If they are led to believe that a rate frozen Illinois will resemble the now frozen Illinois, then public opinion will sway to the utility companies. Chicago is a strong presence in Illinois politics, but not strong enough to hold back a wicked backlash of downstate residents.

Mel Gibson Masturbates 10 Times A Day

2006-12-01T08:33:00.000-08:00

I attempted to watch the DaVinci Code last night with me ladyfriend. About 15 minutes into the film I closed my eyes hoping I could fall asleep, unfortunately, after a few minutes I accepted that it was too early for bedtime and instead I grabbed a magazine and began non-chalantly flipping through it. At this point me ladyfriend, Sally, asked, "What's the matter?"

"Nothing," I replied -- my voice raising an octave at the end, which is typically the way I say "nothing" when I mean "something."

Sally noted this.

"Then why are you reading a magazine?"

"Oh, no reason, really," I replied, quite smugly.

Let me take a moment to catch you up on my history with The DaVinci Code. When it first came out on paperback last early spring I bought it in on a lark. It was months later that Sally discovered the book -- I harumphed and ahem'd my way through the conversation attempting not to lie, but to divert her from the fact that I had bought the book -- and decided she would read it. She ripped through it and urged me to read it. I begrudgingly did so, however, I kept my DaVinci Code readings to my apartment primarily because I didn't want to be the guy reading the best-selling pulp novel on the eve of it coming out on film. That said, I spent a lot of time at home during those few days it took me to read the DaVinci Code. Author Dan Brown, like any Steven Spielberg movie, wastes no time capturing your attention. Indeed there are quite a few problems with the novel particularly when Dan Brown tries to become an art history lecturer, symbologist and theological historian. Why? Because he's dead wrong on many accounts. (Regarding the book, a noted art historian in Chicago told me to "burn the piece of shit.") For those whose faith was tested after reading The DaVinci Code, well, they are morons and didn't have much faith to begin with. I'd say seeing The Passion of the Christ (I haven't) would be more faith-shattering considering the anti-Semitic lunatic that made it. (Can I say, though, that Mel Gibson has become so outlandlishly insane -- I mean truly crazy: wild-haired and wild-eye, chain-smoking, alcoholic ... genius, like Nietzche before he finally succumbed to syphilis -- I think he is, in fact, incredible. Does that mean I'll see Apocalypto? Probably. But I certainly won't tell anyone about it.)

I digress.

The DaVinci Code ... the book ... I gave it a C+.* Dan Brown certainly pens a great action sequence and knows how to leave his readers wanting more through the successful use of cliffhangers. He also develops a winding, albeit mostly linear plot that takes at least one unexpected turn. And sure, learning about codes, etc. is fun. Much of the general population -- thanks to Dan Brown -- can answer a Jeopardy question about the Fibonacci sequence. But, everything else in the book is complete shit.

Okay, we're all caught up. We can now rejoin the dialogue already in progress.

"Are you not enjoying this?" Sally asked me about the film.

"Um ... it's okay ... it's just not holding my attention, but it might ... until then I'll just flip through a magazine."

"If you want to turn it off we can turn it off."

"Oh no, no, you wanted to see the movie so we'll watch it," I said.

"I wanted to watch the movie?" She queried.

"Well, sure."

"Lest you forget, my friend, that it was you who insisted we rent The DaVinci Code instead of Superman Returns. And it was you, my friend, who insisted we watch not one of the other three rented movies we currently have, but instead The DaVinci Code insisting we do so because it's only a two-day rental, which is funny -- really -- because Blockbuster timelines mean nothing to you as I believe your mother and now myself -- whose name and credit card number is on the account -- can attest to."

"Touche."

"So, if you want to turn the movie off, let's turn the fucking thing off."

(Real quick, when Sally swears -- particularly when she says "fuck" -- it's very, very amusing because it kind of sounds unnatural.)

We turned the movie off. And let me tell you, it's complete shit. Don't see it. Maybe read the book -- if you haven't already -- if you're about to take a long plane ride. Otherwise, stay away from Dan Brown altogether. He has enough money. And while you're at it, stear clear of Mel Gibson. He's fucking crazy.

*Sally gives The DaVinci Code a solid B.

The Most Exciting Hour of Television until LOST Returns in February (at which point it will become the second most exciting hour on t.v.)

2006-11-30T11:37:00.000-08:00

The season premiere of Scrubs airs this evening on NBC (8pm C.S.T.) amid cool reviews. Doug Elfman, Chicago Sun-Times television critic, said today, "Tonight's season opener of 'Scrubs' feels like the beginning of the end of itself. It's sort of funny, but it has that hospital odor of something ancient decaying. If you touch it, don't smell your finger."

Despite the paultry reviews I plan on watching it.

Before Scrubs, however, I will most definitely be tuning into the second most exciting television show currently on-air* ... Survivor: Cook Islands.

Alright, quiet down, I can hear the clammering from here. No, I am not pandering to you on behalf of me ex-Survivor ladyfriend. This season of Survivor is truly the finest one to date**, which is ironic (I believe) since it's among the most poorly rated to date. Maybe its poor ratings stem from its racially divided tribes (which lasted just the first few episodes), or that Sally is not among the cast members or that the idea of Survivor is no longer novel and long past its freshness date.

Indeed, Survivor is no longer fresh, but to remedy this I believe the producers made a decision this season to show cast members talking about the fact that they are on Survivor. According to a past Survivor, who has requested anonymity, the discussion of previous seasons and how that may or may not effect the game took place during Survivor: Exile Island. However, the producers failed to air any of these chats. This season, Cook Islands, the castaways are shown discussing strategy -- backstabbing, lying, etc., attributes often defiled in regular society, but necessary in a game that rewards such behavior. The show has finally become self-aware.

Also, actual backstabbing and lying -- not simply the contemplation of it -- is back with a vengence this season. For the past couple years, cast members had become obsessed with the idea of "integrity" while playing the game. A ridiculous notion, really, considering the people on the show have agreed to sell their personalities and images to CBS for a shot at one million dollars -- integrity went out the door when they filled out the application.*** In Cook Islands, the season's villain (albeit most intriguing player), Jonathan, discusses the laziness and ineptitude of his younger tribemates and insists that he doesn't care what these people think of him because they are playing for "one million dollars." Finally someone is again acknowledging the greed aspect of the game and it comes as no shock that an older castaway (Jonathan, who's in his 40s) should mention the million bucks. This is a man with a wife and kids, a mortgage and surely countless other bills. The tribemates he's referring to are all in their early and middle-20s and seem rather immature. To them a million dollars certainly seems like a large sum of cash, but it likely doesn't provide the kind of debt relief that it does for someone with decades of bills and future college tuitions to think about.

With any villain, of course, are the heroes and the show has one or two of these, as well as beaten and bruised underdogs, mutineers, a ridiculous on-screen romance, a Latino character (Ozzie) -- who could likely survive on these uninhabitated Cook Islands if the producers decided to leave him there after they pull the plugs on the season, and a sometimes frazzled Jeff Probst, who is finally taking a tongue-lashing ("Shut up, Jeff") for his commentary during physical challenges.

And, finally, because of these villains, heroes, mutineers and underdogs there is no place for the do-nothings that often take home first or second place. An example of the winning do-nothings are last season's winners -- Aras (first place) and Danielle (second place), the pair did very little challenge-wise and even less scheming and by simply flying beneath the radar and a whole shit-load of luck managed to sneak into the finals. This is a weak way to play Survivor. This season's Survivors are playing a bold game. As a result, the young, good-looking do-nothings, who say things like "this game makes you think too much" are getting voted out one-by-one.

Please, just trust me on this. Give it a try tonight. If you have ON DEMAND through your cable provider watch the first part of the season. Even if Sally is no longer a cast member -- as hard as this may be -- the show is still worth watching.****

*The most exciting show on television is Lost.
**This statement comes, of course, with the caviat that regardless of what I may or may not write, Survivor: Exile Island, is, was and always will be the greatest television series of all time.
***Past Survivor Sally recently said, "I would have traded intergrity for one million dollars in a heartbeat." Funny, yes. True? Probably not. Sally, to her credit, thought the actual game of Survivor was well fun. She wasn't really concerned about the million dollars as much as she was enjoying every last bit of the experience and, of course, being crowned sole Survivor.
****Sally for Survivor: Exile Island was the greatest cast member of all time.

The Truth About Cats and Dogs

2006-11-29T10:43:00.000-08:00

It was literally raining cats and dogs this morning. I mean literally ... hounds and pooches and labs and calicos and siamese and alleys were literally falling from the sky. A huge mess. Traffic backed-up everywhere. The allergic among us running for shelter. Tails and paws strewn about the concrete, clogging the gutters.

How they got into the atmosphere in the first place remains a mystery.

One of the lucky ones.

Talking Dirty and Influencing People

2006-11-28T10:52:00.000-08:00

In the 1960s, comedian Lenny Bruce was arrested on countless occassions for the use of profanity, peppering his act with the words "cocksucker" and "fuck." Undercover police officers in New York City would watch him perform his shows in nightclubs and immediately afterwards arrest him. The charge? Obscenity. Among my favorite Bruce stories is his first performance in Australia, after he was banned from performing in the United States. Bruce took the stage and immediately proclaimed: "You're a wonderful fucking audience." He was then promptly arrested.

Beyond his use of simple "obscenities," Bruce broke ground as a comedian by tackling traditionally sensitive subjects by riffing on the Catholic church and deliberately dropping numerous racial slurs. He would stand on stage and say "kike" and "nigger" over and over again as the audience went from feeling uncomfortable to quietly chuckling to outright laughter. The point that Bruce, a Jew, was trying to make was that these were just words and that by making them untouchable or off limits we were actually giving creedence to their hateful meanings. Bruce, by uttering the slurs, was essentially draining them of their venom.

Fast forward 40-years, to a less talented comedian -- a washed-up sitcom star and hack, basically -- Michael Richards, whose use of the world nigger, as well as other racial slurs last week, was seemingly not meant as social commentary but simply a very vile and unintelligent way of silencing hecklers. Richards' now famous tirade at the West Hollywood club, The Laugh Factory, was tasteless, stupid and uncalled for. However, so is the onslaught of criticism Richards has faced and because of Richards action and the subsequent reaction I think recalling the legacy of Lenny Bruce has never been more important.

Chicago Sun-Times columnist Richard Roeper wrote yesterday that some people are calling Richards' outburst a case of the "Borat-effect." That Richards was, in fact, attempting -- but failing -- to invoke the humor of actor/comedian Sacha Baron Cohen, who plays a racists, anti-semitic, homophobic and sexist reporter from Kazakhastan. Roeper and I both agree that this theory is nonsense.

I believe Richards was attempting to invoke the "Lenny Bruce-effect." Take, for example, this bit from one of Bruce's routines in the early '60s.

Are there any niggers here tonight? Could you turn on the house lights, please, and could the waiters and waitresses just stop serving, just for a second? And turn off this spot. Now what did he say? "Are there any niggers here tonight?" I know there's one nigger, because I see him back there working. Let's see, there's two niggers. And between those two niggers sits a kike. And there's another kike— that's two kikes and three niggers. And there's a spic. Right? Hmm? There's another spic. Ooh, there's a wop; there's a polack; and, oh, a couple of greaseballs. And there's three lace-curtain Irish micks. And there's one, hip, thick, hunky, funky, boogie. Boogie boogie. Mm-hmm. I got three kikes here, do I hear five kikes? I got five kikes, do I hear six spics, I got six spics, do I hear seven niggers? I got seven niggers. Sold American. I pass with seven niggers, six spics, five micks, four kikes, three guineas, and one wop. Well, I was just trying to make a point, and that is that it's the suppression of the word that gives it the power, the violence, the viciousness. Dig: if President Kennedy would just go on television, and say, "I would like to introduce you to all the niggers in my cabinet," and if he'd just say "nigger nigger nigger nigger nigger" to every nigger he saw, "boogie boogie boogie boogie boogie," "nigger nigger nigger nigger nigger" 'til nigger didn't mean anything anymore, then you could never make some six-year-old black kid cry because somebody called him a nigger at school.

Pretty good point, right? And something that perhaps Richards was feeling when he launched into his tirade. However, Bruce was not only a far more original and talented comedian, but one who understood context, or at least he understood context early in his career. As Bruce's career pushed on amid arrests, controversy and drug addiction he abandoned context and embraced rebellion. Nevertheless, when Bruce said the above bit he was not singling anyone out to ridicule. He was empowering them. By employing the tactics of the racists and bigots, Bruce was in turn making them impotent.

Sadly, few people of the time understood what he was doing. And, sadly, fewer people today would understand this technique. Richards certainly didn't understand. He seemed to imitate it, ape it more accurately, but not actually understand what Bruce was attempting to achieve. He aped a revolutionary, proud comedian and in doing so only better proved Bruce's point. Richards used those words because they hurt.

The plot thickens, however, as so too does the "Lenny Bruce-effect." By ensuring Richards' remarks remain national headlines, the African-American community is empowering the bigotry.

In a condescending and smarmy column in today's Chicago Sun-Times, the Rev. Jesse Jackson scolds not only Richards, but the Republican Party and the media as well. In this instance I have to jump party lines and side with Jackson's alleged opponents. (Even though no one is trying to make enemies of Jackson, he's simply picking fights.) In the column, Jackson writes:

Our forefathers created the First Amendment to ensure a robust public debate and to prohibit the government from making laws to squelch political speech, even speech critical of our leaders. But obscenity has never enjoyed that protection, nor should it. Yelling ''fire'' in a crowded theater does not have protection. Similarly, hate speech -- like that wielded by Richards -- has and should be illegal.

Sound familiar? In the 60s, it was "the man" strongly admonishing Bruce for his alleged obscenities. Today, it's a one-time -- long, long ago -- revolutionary preacher (remember, long, long ago in a galaxy far, far away Jackson was tight with Martin Luther (the) King, Jr. (pictured right)) scolded a washed-up sitcom star and marginalized comedian.

Who gives a shit, Jesse? So the next time one of the Baldwin brothers (not Alec, he's truly talented) makes a sexist remark, feminists are going to rage and draw up lawsuits? They're no-talent bozos, why give them any credit by growing angry over stupid commentary?
Sorry Baldwins ... I wanted to make a point. If you notice, the white community is not bent out of shape over this because we don't give a shit about this washed-up television star. The white community is good at disassociating itself with racists and the poor white trash, who are often the racist ones. Unfortunately, the black community still finds itself allied with its "trash,"* for example, the two idiots (but, soon to be rich idiots) that heckled and racially slurred Richards in the first place. Just like I don't care what Richards says, nor would I care what these two idiots say. Sure the dispute occurred in a public locale, but what it boils down to is a dispute between two groups of rather unintelligent persons.

Why does the world care about these two groups of people?

Lastly, Jesse Jackson has called for a boycott of Seinfeld season 7, because one of the show's stars publicly used the word "nigger." So, with that rationale, we should also boycott basically every rap album released since gangster rap supergroup NWA (short for Niggas With Attitudes) dropped its first record. Such a boycott, whether its Seinfeld or rap albums, follows the same ignorant rationale as the people who want to see The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn banned from high school libraries because Mark Twain used the word nigger throughout the book.

"I want to help you if you have a dirty word problem. There are none."----Lenny Bruce

*This notion was suggested by the black writer John Ridley in his recent essay in the December 2006 Esquire magazine titled, "The Manifesto of Ascendancy for the Modern American Nigger."

Former Roommate Andy or Jeff Gordon: A Revelation

2006-11-27T08:35:00.000-08:00

Last year I launched a brief, but well-received website titled, "Former Roommate Andy or Jeff Gordon," a blog site that through photographs explored the striking resemblance between my former roommate Andy and NASCAR sensation Jeff Gordon.

Since shuttering the formal project in early 2006, I've explored the subject on this, my primary blog site, on a handful of occassions. I'd like to again revisit the phenominal resemblance between these two men.

On November 17, US Weekly first reported that NASCAR's Jeff Gordon had wed his girlfriend of two years, Ingrid Vandebosch, a Belgian-born model. (Gordon's previous wife was also a model.)

Now, take a long hard look at this photograph of former roommate Andy, a photo captured just weeks ago.

Good looking guy, right?

Now, take an even closer look at this photograph of "Jeff Gordon's" wedding.

And if you're still not sold on the idea that my former roommate Andy is actually Jeff Gordon then take a long, hard look at this picture.

For the past several years former roommate Andy has, according to his accounts, lived with his girlfriend, Carly, who -- although she is attractive herself -- does not resemble Ingrid Vandebosch. Andy has also worked for his dad's company, Back of the Yard, for some years now -- not as a professional race car driver. And yet the photographic evidence is clear. Former roommate Andy is a liar. Clearly, he's a multimillionaire many times over, married to a continental supermodel and among the NASCAR community's most beloved and misunderstood drivers. (Take these fan comments regarding Gordon/Andy nipped from the US Weekly website: "Really?! I thought this guy was gay!" Said one fan about the recent nuptials, which is interestingly enough a phrase often uttered regarding former roommate Andy. On the other hand, there are comments like this: "I THINK THAT JEFF IS VERY HANDSOME AND INGRID IS A BEAUTIFUL GIRL. GOOD LUCK TO THE BOTH OF THEM!! THIS IS EXACTLY WHAT JEFF NEEDED!! FINALLY A GOOD WOMAN THAT APPRECIATES HIM AND LOVES HIM. JEFF YOU ARE GREAT!")

The truth, my friends, the truth ... We're finally tapping its main vein.

The Soon To Be Divorced Britney Spears and Thanks to Her, My 15 Seconds of Fame

2006-11-19T16:47:00.000-08:00

In the hub-bub of all this post-election excitement I'm afraid I've overlooked what is probably the biggest news item of 2006: Britney Spears filing for divorce from Kevin Federline. This event cannot go unnoticed by the ever watchful eye of Ready Bare Chested.

While really there isn't much else to say about this event other than my own query -- one that I'm still wondering, Is Britney still a virgin or what? -- I think I can add my own self-promotion.

About six years ago I was in New York City with my brother, Donny, and my friend, Billy. This unlikely pair wanted nothing more than to visit the MTV studios in Times Square where they hoped to become part of the audience of Total Request Live (TRL), MTV's intensely and indescribably popular afterschool program where they countdown the day's top music videos while not actually showing any of the music videos, amid a throng of cheering teeny-boppers. I did not want to go, and yet we did and I tagged along -- miserable the whole time.

As my brother wandered off to find a back door to the studio, Billy and I waited in the crowd immediately outside the second-floor MTV studio. After some waiting a cameraman and producer approached us, wondering if they could interview us for an upcoming MTV documentary about sex and pop music. We consented. The producer then asked something to the effect of, "After Britney Spears' provocative performance at the MTV Video Music Awards [where she appeared in a skimpy, skin-tight skin-colored outfit and sang her ode to chastity, "I'm a Slave for You"], what do you think of her/it?" Billy answered first, then I went: "Personally, I thought [the performance] was great, but I wouldn't want my 12-year-old daughter emulating her."

Fast forward two months to December 2000. It's late afternoon, I'm hungover and sleeping in my fraternity house bedroom when the phone rings. It's my girlfriend at the time, who says, "OHMIGOD! I just saw you on MTV!"

"Thanks," I mumbled. "Is that all you wanted?"

"Um, yeah," she answered.

"Okay, bye." And I hung up the phone and went back to sleep forgetting entirely the conversation, totally unaware of what she had just told me. When I awoke hours later, some gentlemen came into my room to report what I had been told earlier ... That I was, in fact, on MTV. As it goes, the documentary, titled "When Sex Goes Pop," featured a segment where Britney Spears is placed in a darkened room with a television to watch "the man-on-the-street's" take on her whole schtik. And there I was, on the television, both praising and condemning Britney Spears right in front of her.

That's right! Britney Spears knows what I look like.

And now here's the real kicker. I taped the show and had the VHS cassette forever cued up to my scene so I could show anyone and everyone who came within earshot of my television. Then, one day months later, my roommate Josh "accidentally" taped over my 15 seconds of fame for a rerun of Dawson's Creek, thus erasing my one stab at fame. The bastard.

If you don't believe me ... Check out this link, a blogger, who actually quotes my comment from the MTV documentary in his entry from 12/14/2000.

So thank you MTV and Britney Spears for my 15 seconds of fame. And now that you're single, don't come a-calling again, I've got me a ladyfriend.

A Sad Farewell To A Kindly Beer

2006-11-14T07:13:00.000-08:00

The Chicago Tribune reported last Friday that Bell's beer, a delicious microbrewed beer from Michigan that released seasonal flavors that were usually oh-so-palleatable, will no longer be sold in Illinois. The reason? Apparently there was a dispute between an Illinoisian and the beer's bottler, which led to the brewery to discontinue shipments to this fine state.

I can live without Bell's. It was not my favorite beer. Not even in my top five. However, perhaps Bell's most popular brew -- its Oberon style -- was introduced to me in college by my good friend Larry, who spent the past two years in Japan and recently returned to the states. He is now living in St. Louis. The beer's bottlers, just like St. Louis and Japan before that, took a little piece of Larry away from me. And I don't like when places or breweries take pieces of my friend Larry away from me.

My friend Larry (center), his mother (left) and me lovely ladyfriend Sally (right).

Actually, Democrats Can Be Quite Ruthless

2006-11-12T14:40:00.000-08:00

I was having a conversation with my friend Rob this morning, who said he was tired of all this "'it's a good day to be a Democrat' shit" on the blog. It seems my liberal wunderlust had temporarily blinded me to the fact that there are still some intelligent people in this country who choose to vote Republican, so I asked Rob: "Why? I mean you are a Democrat, right?"

"No!" He spat back with disgust. "That would be like me saying, 'I'm a pussy.'"

This made me laugh. Thought I'd share it.

It's A Good Day To Be Ready Bare Chested

2006-11-10T15:41:00.000-08:00

Perhaps you've noticed the lone comment to yesterday's blog from an Impeach for Peace representative urging people -- seemingly you readers -- to visit the group's website to learn about a somewhat archaic and little known way to begin impeach precedings via active citizens (as opposed to the better known way, which is through the House Judiciary Committee). The website is worth a visit (the link is provided in yesterday's comment section) if for nothing else than an interesting civics lesson.

Indeed, in yesterday's blog I wrote that the Democrat controlled Congress should "impeach the bastards!" That was sarcasm. I don't truly think we should impeach President George W. Bush for one simple reason ... Dick Cheney would then become president. Dubya is frightening enough, Cheney is downright terrifying. I suppose the only good thing about Cheney being president is he's only one pacemaker malfunction away from leaving the presidency to a (very) liberal woman, Nancy Pelosi. Those odds seem too slim, however, to warrant an impeachment of the inept President Bush.

Nevertheless, the comment yesterday came from a seemingly accredited organization, which I believe gives Ready Bare Chested a stamp of approval ... It's A Good Day To Be Ready Bare Chested.

It's A GREAT Day To Be A Democrat

2006-11-09T19:28:00.000-08:00

The Dems took the Senate. Not to mention the House of Representatives. Whatdaya say ... Let's impeach the bastards!

It's A Good Day To Be A Democrat

2006-11-08T17:10:00.000-08:00

Regardless of party affiliation, you have likely seen, heard or read (above) that it is a good day to be a Democrat.

Democratic majority of the House of Representatives!

One too-close-to-call election (Virginia) away from gaining control of the Senate.

A majority of Democratic governors!

Oh yeah, and the resignation of blowhard and overall hack Donald Rumsfeld as secretary of defense -- the man second or third (depending on how you view Dick Cheney's influence) most responsible for the nation's current debacle in Iraq (George W. Bush being, of course, the most responsible -- though you'd never know it by his constant passing of the buck and overall state of denial).

Indeed, it's a good day to be a Democrat!

But what about this new secretary of defense, Robert Gates, a former CIA operative and director of intelligence under the first Bush administration as well as one-time president of Texas A&M? Well, I like that he's a retired journeyman of the CIA, although it is interesting that the first time Gates was nominated for the position of Director of Intelligence his appointment was denied due to his involvement in the Iran-Contra scandal and alleged passing of secrets to Iraq during the Iran-Iraq War. But then again, what's the George W. Bush administration without a whole lot of underhandedness?

Instead of personally pointing out another critique of Gates, I'll let a Democratic congressman handle it: "The president's choice of Robert Gates to succeed Mr. Rumsfeld ... is deeply troubling. During his tenure at CIA, Mr. Gates developed a reputation for pressuring analysts and managers to shape analytical conclusions to fit administration positions," Rep. Rush Holt, D-N.J said according to an Associated Press article.

Plus, let's not forget the words of President Bush just one year, no, no, wait, I'm sorry just one month, hold on, that's not right, one week ago President Bush declared to the Associated Press, "Both those men [Rumsfeld and Vice-President Dick Cheney] are doing fantastic jobs. And I strongly support them ... Yes, I am [expecting Rumsfeld to stay on until the end of my term]."

For a hearty chuckle and strong harumph I urge you to check out this AP interview where Bush discusses Rumsfeld's tenure and admittedly lies to reporters about the former secretary of defense's pending resignation.

VOTE (Democrat) TODAY

2006-11-07T08:38:00.000-08:00

Don't Disappoint This Crying Baby

An Update on the Sexual Misadventures of the Duke of Haggard

2006-11-06T19:58:00.000-08:00

By last weekend's end (some of) the truth emerged regarding George W. Bush's favorite Christian, Rev. Ted Haggard* ... He, in fact, engaged in "sexually immoral" acts with a gay male prostitute, the New York Times reported Sunday. While admitting he had purchased methamphetamine from gay prostitute Michael Jones -- but threw the drugs away before using them -- Rev. Haggard denied having any sexual relations with the man. However, church elders at the New Life mega-Church in Colorado Springs, Colorado, said in a statement Sunday that its former chief pastor Ted Haggard has "without a doubt ... committed sexually immoral conduct." Rev. Haggard was fired from his role as lead pastor of the massive church as well as dismissed as leader of the National Association of Evangelicals.

Rev. Haggard did take responsibility for his actions referring to himself as a "liar and deceiver." Meanwhile, congregants at New Life reportedly accepted Rev. Haggard with "open arms" after he delivered his apology, according to the New York Times. In this apology Rev. Haggard said Sunday, "There's a part of my life that is so repulsive and dark that I have been warring against it for all of my adult life.''

(It seems Rev. Haggard, who was among the staunchest supporters for a Colorado state ban on gay marriage, has gained little empathy for homosexuals -- despite his apparent lifestyle and what seems a truly heartfelt apology -- since he is seemingly referring to homosexuality as "repulsive" and "dark." "What Would Jesus Do" in this situation? Apparently, at least according to Rev. Haggard, dub a group of basically passive individuals as "repulsive and dark." While I do have eight years of Lutheran schooling under my belt, I'm admittedly not as up-to-date on my Bible as I could be. However, I do recall that Jesus did not even refer to his executors -- the Romans (or Jews, depending on how anti-Semitic you are) -- as "repulsive and dark.")

In another New York Times article, the newspaper pointed out a rather revealing quip from Rev. Haggard in the recent documentary, Jesus Camp, as the reverend discussed homosexuals: ''I think I know what you did last night,'' Rev. Haggard said in the film. ''If you send me a thousand dollars, I won't tell your wife.''

I believe, although I only took one psychology class in college, that some might call such a remark transference.

*The president and Rev. Haggard reportedly speak every Monday. It is unknown, however, if GW spoke with Rev. Haggard this Monday.

The Duke of Haggard: Sex, Drugs and Evangelicalism*

2006-11-03T14:16:00.000-08:00

A Friday headline courtesy of the good people at the New York Times ...

Evangelical Leader Says He Bought Drugs
The Rev. Ted Haggard, the former president of the National Association of Evangelicals and one of the nation’s most influential Christian leaders, admitted today that he had purchased the illegal drug methamphetamine from a gay escort in Denver, but denied that he ever had sex with the man.

This story, filed by reporters John Holusha and Neela Banerjee, indicates that Rev. Haggard (pictured right) resigned as chief pastor of the New Life mega-Church in Colorado Spring, Colorado, amid the allegations. The New Life Church, which boasts 12,000 members making it the largest megachurch in Colorado, is outspoken on its stance against gay marriage as well as adament about eliminating poverty and providing aid to the war-ravaged Darfur area in the Sudan. The church's campus contains a Starbucks, bookstore, small hotel and an old-West themed room for children. Speaking of its children, inside the church's immense nursery its children are required to wear bar code tags.*

According to the New York Times, three years ago Rev. Haggard was staying at a Denver hotel where he inquired about getting a "firm massage" in his room. The hotel put him in contact with a man, who sometime before, during or after the alleged massage sold Haggard crystal meth. In an interview with New York Times radio, reporter Neela Banerjee said Rev. Haggard also mentioned using the drug with his wife.*** “I was tempted, I bought [the crystal meth], but I did not use it,” Rev. Haggard told Denver television station KUSA.

Michael Jones, the admitted gay prostitute and former personal trainer, also claimed he and Rev. Haggard carried on a three-year sexual relationship. Rev. Haggard paid for sex and also used crystal meth during these encounters, Jones said. The last time the pair saw each other was August of this year, Jones added. (The New York Times noted that Jones partially failed a lie detector test, although his lawyers blamed the partial failure on extreme exhaustion. Rev. Haggard has also denied ever knowing Jones.)

Much of Rev. Haggard's flock are calling the allegations politically motived, since Rev. Haggard is among the most outspoken proponents of a state amendment banning gay marriage. Colorado voters will cast their ballots for the amendment this Tuesday.

Jones, on the other hand, freely admits that the timing of his admission is political. Jones said he saw Rev. Haggard on t.v. supporting the amendment and thought it was hypocritical for a man involved in a sexual relationship to so outspokenly support a ban on gay marriage.

The Rev. Ted Haggard is no simple preacher. This man has the ear of the president. According to Harper's Weekly****, Rev. Haggard and President George W. Bush talk every Monday morning. "I'm a right-wing religious conservative ... I joke that the only disagreement I have with George Bush is on what type of truck to drive," Rev. Haggard has said.

Haggard is also a big fan of the movie Napoleon Dynamite.

*At first I thought God did not want me to write this story, because when attempting to save a draft of the blog I learned I accidentally disabled this computer's wireless function thus causing me to lose the entire entry. Shortly after that I banged my finger in my bedroom door. However, upon further consideration, I figured God just wanted me to revise the posting and make it more succint and less peppered with sarcasm.

**Information regarding the New Life Church as well as facts about Haggard's relationship with President Bush and his love for Napoleon Dynamite come from the devilishly entertaining book The Sinner's Guide to the Evangelical Right by Robert Lanham.

***Additional details on this brewing scandal that are not mentioned in the newspaper story come from a New York Times Radio interview with reporter Neela Banerjee.

****This Harper's Weekly story provides excellent background on Rev. Ted Haggard and the New Life Church.

Happy Halloween ...

2006-10-31T18:04:00.000-08:00

... I shaved my head today. I look tough.

The Crazy Possibility of Hope

2006-10-23T15:58:00.000-07:00

The banner headlines in Chicago and front page news across much, if not all of the country today is Illinois Sen. Barack Obama's statements yesterday on Meet the Press that he's considering a run for president in 2008. The immensely popular democratic, who was elected to his post in 2004, reversed his formerly staunch position that he would not run for president in 2008 despite numerous calls for his bid by saying, "Given the responses I've been getting over the last several months, I have thought about the possibility, but I have not thought about it with the seriousness and depth that I think is required," Obama said. After the Nov. 7 election, he said, "I will sit down and consider it." (As reported by the Chicago Tribune.)

I would vote for him in a heartbeat.

Imagine this baby afro in the White House

The strongest argument facing Obama's potential candidacy is his lack of political experience. He has served as senator for two years and before that just one full-term as Illinois state senator. Answering that critique recently was Chicago Sun-Times columnist Neil Steinberg, who said in his October 20 column that two of this country's most revered presidents -- John F. Kennedy and Theodore Roosevelt -- were young, relative newcomers to the political scene, while one of America's most infamous presidents -- Richard Nixon -- was among the older men to serve in office. (Steinberg also noted that Clinton, considered in 1992 somewhat of a political youngster, is still awaiting history's ruling on his presidency, while another older president, Ronald Reagan, is among the most popular presidents.) A man Steinberg failed to mention is the one-time political neophyte George W. Bush, a president whose only political experience prior to becoming the nation's top CEO was one full-term as Texas governor. Many consider George W. Bush either the worst or potentially one of the finest presidents in our history.

Basically, critics are saying Obama is untested ... I say he's untainted. Take for example what I once heard a golf instructor say about young pupils first learning the game. This golf pro said youngsters who have never picked up a club have a purer swing than anyone else playing the game because no one has had the opportunity to pollute the youngster's technique. Obama is young (45). He has ideals about national unity and the responsibility this government has to its people and those in other countries. He's also firm in his convictions, but perhaps more importantly open to realms of thought other than his own. If he waits until 2012 or later to run for president he may lose these fresh ideals and become mired in the dirty politics of Washington.

Finally, I've read articles about Obama's appeal that insist his popularity is merely a reflection of this country's own need for a strong leader, who pulpits national unity. The article said that through these desperate and weird times we Americans are willing to put on a pulpit someone who may reflect our own needs whether that person (Obama) truly deserves our praise. To that I say, maybe ... But before jumping to that conclusion I encourage people to read Obama's 2004 speech at the Democratic National Convention. Here's an excerpt:

Now even as we speak, there are those who are preparing to divide us, the spin masters and negative ad peddlers who embrace the politics of anything goes.

Well, I say to them tonight, there's not a liberal America and a conservative America; there's the United States of America.

There's not a black America and white America and Latino America and Asian America; there's the United States of America.

It felt like a political speech of old -- one delivered by John F. Kennedy or Franklin Delano Roosevelt or that other Illinois senator that became president, Abraham Lincoln. More than anything else, though, the speech gave me chills and hope. And the latter feeling is exactly what this country needs more than anything else ... hope. If Barack Obama is little more than a reflection of the hope we as Americans desire -- a personification of this need for hope -- then he has my vote and my material support.

I hope he decides to run and I hope anyone reading this will also give him support.

Some People Never Learn

2006-10-19T20:04:00.000-07:00

On August 28, following this year's Emmy Awards, I wrote about the actor Jeremy Piven's ridiculous outfit for the evening gala. He was wearing a black tuxedo, white shirt and -- here's the kicker -- an ascot tucked into the shirt. Sadly, no one but the British ruling class and Cary Grant can pull off an irony-free ascot, everyone else looks like Fred from Scooby-Doo.

Jeremy vs. Fred

Well, it looks like Jeremy Piven, an all-around asshole according to Hollywood sources, is at it again. According to the October 30, 2006 issue of US Weekly, Jeremy Piven was spied "picking up an Oliver Spencer ascot at a Jake store in Chicago." This means Jeremy Piven thought he looked awesome in his ascot. The original sin at the Emmy Awards was potentially forgiveable if Piven had cut out the ascot nonsense -- maybe it was all a joke or else hopefully he looked at pictures of himself the next day and thought, "man, I looked like an asshole." But oh no, no, no he went back for more and in Chicago of all places.

The horror.

Blood in the Streets ...

2006-10-16T21:52:00.000-07:00

Recent headlines regarding the current war in Iraq:

Talks on Stabilizing Iraq Put on Hold
BAGHDAD -- Iraq's government Sunday indefinitely postponed a much-anticipated national reconciliation conference as a two-day spree of sectarian revenge killings and insurgent bombings left at least 86 Iraqis dead.-----AP, 10/16/06

For Young Sunnis, a Grim Existence
BAGHDAD -- For the first time in more than a month, 19-year-old Mustafa al-Adhami ventured out of his home recently in his hardscrabble neighborhood, looking for a haircut. As he and a friend walked to a nearby barbershop in the predominantly Sunni section of western Baghdad, they came upon the corpse of a young man they later learned had been dumped on the street a few hours earlier.-----Chicago Tribune, 10/16/06

Iraqi Dead May Total 600,000, study says
BAGHDAD — A team of American and Iraqi public health researchers has estimated that 600,000 civilians have died in violence across Iraq since the 2003 American invasion, the highest estimate ever for the toll of the war here.-----New York Times, 10/11/06

__________________________________________________________________
Past headlines regarding other major humanitarian disasters:

According to a 2005 report by the United States Department of State regarding the bloody conflict in the Darfur region of the Sudan:
It is estimated that 98-181,000 people have died since March 2003 in the conflict-affected area of Darfur and eastern Chad. Excluding an expected “normal” base mortality total of 35,000 deaths for this population, 63-146,000 “excess” deaths can be attributed to violence, disease, and malnutrition because of the conflict.

Rwanda Census Puts Genocide Death Toll at 937,000
KIGALI -- The 1994 Rwandan genocide claimed 937,000 victims according to a census the Rwandan government conducted in 2001, a cabinet minister said on Sunday.----Reuters, 4/4/04

Death Toll in Bosnian War was 102,000
The number of people killed in the war in Bosnia-Herzegovina was around 102,000, according to research done by the International Criminal Tribunalfor the former Yugoslavia (ICTY). This is half of earlier estimates.----------Norwegian News Agency, 11/14/04

____________________________________________________________________

Although President George W. Bush wildy denied the recent estimates of roughly 600,000 dead due to violence in Iraq, the findings from the Johns Hopkins Bloomberg School of Public Health are indescribably disturbing even if the people behind the study are half correct. (According to the same New York Times article listed above, "It is an estimate and not a precise count, and researchers acknowledged a margin of error that ranged from 426,369 to 793,663 deaths.") The president, by the way, has offered no valid reason as to why the 600,000 figure is incorrect. In his typical fashion, the president simply dismissed the number and therefore expects the American people to blindly accept his dismissal. (The U.S. and Iraqi governments, meanwhile, in their own studies have placed the number at about 30,000 dead.)

For the sake of argument, let's say the medical journal was off by 300,000 thus making the total dead in Iraq since the 2003 American invasion roughly 300,000 soldiers (American, allied, Iraqi and enemy combatants) as well as civilians including women and children. If nothing else then, this disturbing estimate ranks the Iraq debacle ahead of the reported genocide in Bosnia and humanitarian crisis and alleged genocide in the Sudan as well as nearly a third of the way towards the horrific genocide in Rwanda. And while I hesitate to make this comparison, the 600,000 figure at least scratches the surface of the millions of dead after the Jewish holocaust.

So why hasn't the American news media or American public connected these dots? Why does the media still use somewhat sterile terms like "secterian revenge killings" and "car bombings" when describing Iraq? Why is the American media balking at declaring the crisis in Iraq an all-out civil war or even potential genocide? Sure the media hints at it and suggests such ideas, but seemingly because the Bush Administration fails to use those terms the media also backs away from such strong language. How high does this alleged body count have to rise before the media and the public begin sounding the alarms that should have gone off while scores of people were being murdered in Rwanda?

Chicago Bears 24 Arizona Cardinals 23

2006-10-16T21:25:00.000-07:00

Wow! What a Bears game! Thanks to Chicago's special teams and defense as well as the Arizona Cardinals' botched last minute field goal the still undefeated Bears stole a victory from an adrift Cardinals team. And you know who missed what should have been the game winning field goal with less than one minute left in the game? Neil Rackers ... Fellow University of Illinois alumnus Neil Rackers ... Speech communications major Neil Rackers ... St. Louis native Neil Rackers ... All around fuckhead and cocky bastard Neil Rackers.

Thank you, Neil Rackers!

Two Guys Walked Into a Bar ...

2006-10-15T19:15:00.000-07:00

The weekend trip my ladyfriend and me took to St. Louis was indeed lovely and weird ... My two favorite attributes of a party. While it was a great weekend, it ended on a somewhat sour note when I was pulled over on the way home. According to the motorcycle riding police officer, I was doing 80 mph in a 55 mph zone. If this is accurate -- and I'm not saying it is because I plan on taking the matter to court -- the reason this excessive speed allegedly occurred is due to my reported inability to adjust my speed after we entered a 55 mph zone from a 65 mph area. The cost of the ticket, if I'm convicted, is not a problem, and while losing my license as bond is annoying, I'm more upset because getting pulled over makes me feel like a failure as a driver. An efficient driver travels quickly, defensively and with great traffic savvy without speeding too much while underneath the prying eye of state troopers. I, unfortunately, failed at the last bit. Nevertheless, we enjoyed a lovely weekend and returned home safely. I suppose there's a lesson in all of this nonsense.

In entirely unrelated news, this evening in Manhatten the legendary punk rock club CBGB put on its final show with Patti Smith closing the place down for its last night ever. The owner of the club failed to extend CBGB's lease. I have a personal connection to this club, although not because I was there. Instead, it involves two very good friends, one of whom is now dead. In October 2000, my family traveled to New York City for my cousin's wedding. My parents drove to NYC ahead of my brother and me and spent several days, possibly a week in the city, while my brother and I flew there for the weekend. Accompanying me for this trip was my friend Billy, who lives in Los Angeles but at the time was living in Chicago. Meanwhile, my late friend Brett took a train from the Naval Academy in Anapolis, Maryland to NYC to meet us. We arrived Friday and enjoyed an evening of revelry. On Saturday, while my brother and I were at the wedding ceremony, Brett and Billy hit some downtown and midtown bars. CBGB was on the list of places they wanted to visit. As the afternoon wore into evening (they were scheduled to meet me later at the reception, or as some family members later dubbed, "crash" the reception), the drunk and getting drunker pair sat over their beers and lamented the fact that they apparently had not made it to CBGB. This conversation wore into another as the two finished their drinks and soon left. As they were standing outside waiting to catch a cab the pair turned around and then noticed that they had just exited CBGB. True story.

A Marooned Man

2006-10-13T12:07:00.000-07:00

I spoke with my good friend Chris today. Chris is a self-loathing writer from Los Angeles, who loathes Los Angeles. He had a brief crush on a young lady, who recently began dating a member of the inexplicably popular band The Maroon 5. Needless to say he was not happy about this turn of events. Although his distaste wasn't necessarily due to losing the girl, but to losing the girl to a member of The Maroon 5 -- a Maroon 1, if you will.

"The Maroon fucking 5!" He declared with great vitriol. "In all likelihood I would not have remembered this girl or The Maroon 5 in 20 years, but both will now be in mind for the rest of my life."

I don't know who this girl is, but I feel for Chris considering this horrible band will be somewhere inside his thoughts for apparently the rest of his natural life.

In other news, me ladyfriend and me are heading to St. Louis for a party thrown by my college friend/former rooommate Josh and his roommate, Katie, the mind behind the blog, I'm A Walking Contradiction. The party is in honor of their third roommate's birthday, another of my college friends. It is a barndance themed party, a ho down, actually, and I'm debating between either dressing as a central member of the acclaimed film, Brokeback Mountain, or dressing up as a prostitute (get it, a ho?).

Finally, in totally unrelated news, I'm considering shaving my head.

Have a lovely weekend everyone!

A Brief Study of the White Collar Worker

2006-10-11T17:22:00.000-07:00

I'm out of the ladies clothing world and now deeply involved in the tantalizing universe of flu shots. My childhood friend, Joe, who was also my one-time college roommate once quoted as saying about me "he wouldn't piss on me if I was on fire," is my boss. Joe is a "sales executive" with Chicago Health Consultants, a start up preventative health firm launched with money from Joe's ex-girlfriend's dad. Joe is recently engaged, by the way. His fiancee is not the daughter of his financeer. Regardless, congratulations Joe.

I digress.

As Joe's employee, I am a "supervisor," which means I lead a ragtag bunch of traveling nurses who visit office buildings in Chicago's financial district, known as the loop, where the nurses give flu shots to the suits for $25 a pop. I collect the money, handle the paperwork and basically make sure things go smoothly with the patients and nurses. Sometimes I pretend I'm a doctor.

"Can I get the flu from a flu shot?" A prospective patient may ask me.

"No," I answer, "we use an inactive flu virus in our innoculations. However, you may experience symptoms that mimic influenza such as a low-grade fever accompanied by aches and pains. These symptoms may last 12 hours, but I assure you that such a reaction is rare."

It's all about confidence.

When not filling out paperwork or playing doctor I wile away the majority of my hours doing crossword puzzles and observing people. And I've observed much. You see in Chicago's loop there are a variety of sub-species of suits, as I like to call them, which are actually office workers. Allow me to break down these sub-species:

The Gunslingin' Stock Broker: this group, typified by middle-age men whose college education is inconsequential, is actually my favorite. Although they carry with them a heavy air of hubris they are the most good-humored and conversational. They like to crack jokes, particularly at the expense of each other or the female underlings they employ. If these guys carried firearms they'd exclusively shoot from the hip. Since they might lose a million dollars in the morning and gain five million in the afternoon a sense of humor and deep passion for cocaine and hookers is a must. Also, they don't sleep or where ties.

The My-Shit-Don't-Stink Attorney: you don't have to ask this group how important or smart they are because they'll invariably let you know with their condescending tone. The males of this sub-species are intelligent douche bags, who ask too many pointless questions and look at you like you're a failure. Meanwhile they're wives cheat on them. The females of this sub-species are intelligent bitches, who ask too many pointless questions and look at you like you're a failure. They cheat on their husbands. Very few of them will realize they're assholes before they die. They are also the reason for exhaustive and specifically worded disclaimer forms and yet they are also the group that make the biggest stink about filling-out the disclaimer forms. The men like to wear expensive suits and talk about their gym memberships, while the women -- also clad in business suits -- enjoy mentioning their summer homes in Wisconsin or Michigan (and trust me it's always Wisconsin or Michigan).

The Office Drone: the most depressing of the bunch, this sub-species works a rewardless job because they have to and due to their mind-numbing jobs and constant exposure to florescent lights they all look at least seven years older than they actually are. This group is always talking about the weekend, because that's all they live for and they always take exactly one hour for lunch -- never less because they need that time away from the office and never more since anything longer than one hour could get them in trouble. This group is wholly unoriginal and poorly dressed regardless of gender. They also consume the most amount of television and buy into whatever trend, fad or paranoia the media is pitching that week. The office drone is the reason God invented wrinkle free Dockers and starched cobalt blue dress shirts as well as gave Oprah the idea for extreme makeovers. And yet, without the office drone performing tiresome and pointless middle management drudgery, the modern world's materialistic infrastructure would not exist. Nor would light beer ads.

The Number Bod: on the surface this sub-species seems like the most depressing and yet -- with exception to perhaps the Gun Slingin' Stock Broker and Indiscreet Media Maven -- they love their jobs the most. The dandruffed men of this group are often overheard at dinner party's saying, "My wife likes to say [insert odd laughter, probably a snort or giggle] that I'm married to her but I make love to numbers." Indeed, they love numbers. They love staring at numbers, thinking about numbers, waxing nostalgically about numbers and even fantasizing lustfully about numbers. In most cases their clothes are wrinkled because quite frankly, with all this talk and musing over numbers, they just plain forget to iron their single striped dress shirts. The only reason this sub-species retires is so it can finally reap the benefits of the overly generous nest egg it has nestled for the past 50 years.

The Indiscreet Media Maven: the members of this group are either on the evening news broadcast or they help produce it and they want everyone to know it, either by wearing the exact makeup out of the studio that they wear in the studio when the cameras are rolling or else by wearing the I.D. indicating they work for NBC or FOX. If the sub-species member is an actual reporter then look out, because they'll ask enough questions to get you to finally admit that yes, you once put on your neighbor's tutu just to see how it felt and yes, it felt good. Though indiscreet, the newscasters enjoy wearing discreet suits, while the behind-the-camera guys are often spied in tattered jeans, denim shirts and moustaches. And finally, regarding the on-air personalities, they are what happens when a good-looking, well-spoken narcissist decides ruling a nation is just not plausible these days.

The Artistic Sell-Out: ah yes, the spectacled, possibly tattooed Urban Outfitters shopping Artistic Sell-Out, also known as an ad guy. The men are slight and the women are waifish. They create generic, albeit sometimes witty, slogans and advertisements that almost always win over the office drones and get them talking at the water cooler. They are political, but fail to vote; they are socially liberal, but rarely stray from their gentrified neighborhoods; and they are sick of our consumer society, but only shop at ma-and-pa stores on Sundays after said store has been written up in the latest issue of the city's alternative weekly newspaper. And even though they can afford to do otherwise, they drink Pabst Blue Ribbon in order to "keep it real." They also love Diesel sneakers and maintain fantastically sarcastic blogs. This sub-species is what happens when a creative person with ideals decides making money is better avenue.

If I were more motivated and talented, the latter sub-species is where I would be. Instead I administer flu shots, a job that like ditch diggers the world will always need.

The Ready Bare Chested Overlooked Newsmaker Award, vol. 1

2006-10-06T20:27:00.000-07:00

A Ready Bare Chested Overlooked Newsmaker Award goes to John Hall, the billionaire Texas oil tycoon, who in early 2001 was inexplicably behind the controls of a United States Navy nuclear submarine when it surfaced in the Pacific toppling a Japanese fishing boat and killing nine passengers of which four were Japanese students. According to Salon.com, Hall -- along with several other extremely wealthy Texans onboard the U.S.S. Greeneville that day -- was a large contributor to both George W. Bush and the Republican Party. For some unknown reason the admiral of the submarine let Hall take control of the vessel at it performed a mock emergency surfacing. Although Hall and others maintain there was a Navy man by his side at the time and they thoroughly employed the use of a periscope, nine innocent Japanese people out on a fishing trip were killed -- drowned in the Pacific Ocean. Nothing happened to Hall, aside from some brief notoriety and a spot on NBC's Today Show so he could give his side of the story.

ThIS newsmaker was ultimately overshadowed by other events of the day and year including the scandal involving former California Congressman Gary Condit, who was falsely accused of kidnapping and murdering Chandra Levy -- a beltway intern originally from Condit's congressional district. Allegations were made linking Levy and Condit romantically. Condit ultimately lost his reelection bid and has never been heard from again, nor has Levy's killer who is still on the loose. Oh yeah, and then there was that other story in 2001 pulling headlines from John Hall, I believe it occurred on September 11. After that Texas oil tycoons were no longer viewed suspiciously but instead as heroes (see: son and friend of oil tycoons George W. Bush).

So here's to John Hall, wherever you are (probably swimming in his pool filled with cold coins and decorated with petroleum drenched ducks), for taking home a Ready Bare Chested Overlooked Newsmaker Award.

The Unfortunate Scapegoat for an Anti-Semitic High School

2006-10-06T19:37:00.000-07:00

My high school alma mater, Maine South, was recently in the news. The following is an article from the Chicago Sun-Times detailing the supposedly newsworthy incident. I edited some of the article deleting a short bit at the end including a statement from the Anti-Defamation League as well as some statistical information about the Maine South Football's team win-lose record in the last three years. I did not alter the tone of the article, instead my intention was to pare the article down to make it more readable. Here it is ...

Nazi phrase gets football coach benched
October 5, 2006
BY ERIC HERMAN AND TINA AKOURIS Staff Reporters

After posting a message on players' lockers last week that was worded the same as a Nazi slogan, Maine South High School's top football coach was suspended for a game, officials said Wednesday. Dave Inserra, 39, will sit out Maine South's homecoming game against New Trier this Saturday, Principal David Claypool said. The one-game suspension comes after Inserra put up signs saying, "Work will set you free," on the lockers of the varsity team. The German version of that phrase -- "Arbeit macht frei" -- became infamous when used by the Nazis, who posted it at the entrance to Auschwitz and at other concentration camps. "I regret it ever happening. It was a completely honest mistake," Inserra said. "Ignorance is not an excuse. I should have checked the origin." Claypool agreed the incident was "an honest mistake." Inserra posts a "weekly phrase," intended as inspiration, on the lockers of his team members, he said. Often, the phrases are quotes from famous leaders, including President Theodore Roosevelt and football coach Vince Lombardi, he said. Sometimes, he makes up his own. Inserra heard "work will set you free" during a school-wide meeting at the beginning of the academic year, he said. The speaker who used it "was talking about teaching," he said. And while some in attendance knew the phrase's origin, he did not, he said. The phrase fit well with the varsity football team's theme for the season -- "Work hard, work smart, work together," Inserra said. Last Thursday, Inserra posted fliers saying "Work will set you free" on the varsity team's lockers. The next day, a colleague told him, "This could get you in trouble," he said. He took the signs down immediately and wrote an apology to the entire teaching staff. Claypool said Inserra did not know the historical significance of the phrase. "Dave Inserra is one of the most respected people at Maine South," he said.

Contributing: Steve Tucker

As one student said in the full version of the article, this incident seemed "blown out of proportion." I agree (unless Coach Inserra was quoting Mel Gibson, then it would be an outrage). But then again, Maine South has never really had a problem being anti-Semitic. From my recollection of those crazy high school days, Jewish jokes were as rampant as black jokes in South Carolina. The sight of a Jew in the hallowed hallways of Maine South -- also the alma mater of Hillary Clinton -- was as likely as the sight of an African-American, which is to say highly unlikely.

The reaction to this incident is extremely unfortunate. Coach Inserra is a good man. He's also a remarkably respectful and sensitive man in a field (read: football coaches), who thrive on insensitiviy. I'm on Coach Inserra's side here, as well as that of Jewish people. Considering his intentions, it was not wrong from him to post this sign, nor is it wrong for Jewish people to feel sensitive about this statement. The fault, in this case, lies with the school's administration and Coach Inserra's colleagues, whose reaction to the incident was well overblown. The reaction implies guilt and because Coach Inserra is clearly not guilty the administration is exposing its own guilty conscious.

And for any non-Jews who are angry about Coach Inserra's actions we'll probably see you in theaters this winter for Mel Gibson's latest film, Apocalypto, a picture produced with money netted from a film that many in the Jewish community felt was anti-Semitic (The Passion of the Christ). So let's be honest here, it's awfully nice to scream anti-Semitism when it's convenient and someone else takes the fall. But if cries of anti-Semitism are going to upset a Gentile's film-going experience then -- according to the Gentiles -- those anti-Semitic claims are probably just the result of a conspiracy cooked up by Jewish studio owners and Hacidic diamond mind owners.

Bush's White House: The Sick Intersection Between Rock 'n' Roll and Italian Opera Pop

2006-10-06T15:24:00.000-07:00

So that it doesn't get lost among the stories concerning the I'm-too-sexy-for-my-job former Republican congressman Mark Foley, I'd like to highlight a story published today in the New York Times detailing a link between the I'm-to-corrupt-for-my job former Republican lobbyist Jack Abramoff and the Bush White House. The report said President Bush's special assistant, Susan Ralston, who was also the top administrative assistant to conservative svengali Karl Rove, submitted her resignation this week after close ties between her and her former boss -- Jack Abramoff -- emerged, thus linking the White House to Abramoff ... A link the Bush Administration has continually denied.

Not only is this another illustration of the corruption and dishonesty of the Bush Administration, but also a personal insult after learning what Abramoff had given Ralston has "gifts," which include tickets to both a Bruce Springsteen and Andrea Bocelli concert. Now I know the blind Italian opera singer has a tremendous set of pipes, but come on ... Can the two even be mentioned in the same breath let alone have crossover fans? This just highlights the extremely deranged and sick individuals our President has working for him. What's next ... A report linking Bush staffers with Bob Dylan and Celine Dion concert tickets? God help us everyone.

What Does Cuban Music and Pedophilia Have in Common? (Hint: Absolutely Nothing)

2006-10-05T20:10:00.000-07:00

As reported by the insufferable music snobs at Pitchforkmedia.com, two members of the untouchable Cuban music collective The Buena Vista Social Club* have recently collaborated with the likes of Radiohead, Artic Monkeys, Kaiser Chiefs, Franz Ferdinand and others less talented to back up the bands' previously recorded tracks with some fresh Cubano beats (plus a handful of uber-talented, but lesser known Cuban artists included the Social Club's virtuoso Ibrahim Ferrer). Although the record -- titled Rhythms Del Mundo -- hasn't dropped in stores yet you can check out a sampling of the tunes here. It's music that can turn the aging Fidel Castro into a strapping young Porfirio Rubirosa. My favorite little ditty is the Artic Monkey's "Dancing Shoes," which with its Cuban beat makes it all the more enticing to strap on some dancing shoes and boogie on down to.

In entirely unrelated news, does anyone else find it humorous that through its coverage of the disgraced Florida Congressman Mark Foley's online sexcapades with a 16-year-old House of Representatives page, the media likes to equate pedophilia and alcoholism (both of which Foley seems guilty of) with homosexuality? The first two in the list are sicknesses, while the third is a lifestyle, but then again to far right leaning Republicans, who cite Pat Robertson as one of their spiritual gurus (a man once quoted as saying, "[Homosexuals] want to come into churches and disrupt church services and throw blood all around and try to give people AIDS and spit in the faces of ministers"), wants the difference? What I enjoy most about this scandal -- I mean, besides the obvious, which is watching the Republicans internally combust due to their own hypocrisy and dishonesty -- are the words reporters have chosen to describe the sexually explicit emails including "inappropriate," "lurid," "suggestive" and my personal favorite ... "steamy." Steamy, huh? A 55-year-old talking masturbation and penis length with a 16-year-old boy ... steamy ... who's reading that reporter's emails?

*The Buena Vista Social Club achieved fame outside of Cuba thanks to the eponymous documentary released in 1999 by acclaimed German documentarian Wim Wenders. A collection of talented Cuban musicians both young and old -- and every age in between, the Buena Vista Social Club plays truly organic Cuban jazz music played in the streets, homes and clubs of Cuba. The soundtrack to Wenders' film is a must own as is the entire Ibrahim Ferrer collection.

Political Catharsis, or, How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Start Loving the Stupidity of George W. Bush

2006-10-04T16:42:00.000-07:00

Many of my friends, contemporaries, colleagues, sympathizers, acquaintences, etc. (many of whom were either apolitical or had vaguely right political leanings) have in at least the last year displayed a great deal of ire for our current president, his administration and its policies. This is refreshing, necessary and often entertaining. I've been delighted to see that even one-time supporters of the president have admitted that perhaps -- in retrospective -- many, if not all of his near sighted, knee jerk and completely ignorant and one-sided ideas about foreign and domestic policies are anywhere from ill-conceived to completely outrageous, immoral and detrimental to our American way of life.

I too have shown much anger towards our current administration, which many longtime readers had probably noticed in past blogs. Longtime readers likely also noticed -- some with relief perhaps -- that these tirades have dried up. Have I fallen in line with his conservative agenda? Or perhaps lost my interest and passion for politics? Absolutely not. What has occurred in the last six months is catharsis. Nothing this man does or says surprises me. History will show that he is one of the worst presidents our nation has ever experienced -- and sadly, experienced for two terms. And at the same time I don't really blame the American public for (sortof) electing him once and then reelecting him because I also believe that history will show America suffered from a collective post traumatic stress syndrome following the events of Sept. 11, 2001. Much like a man or woman will get involved in a destructive relationship with another person after a traumatic experience, so too did the American public with George W. Bush.

And so now all I can do is chuckle and hope that the Democrats provide a candidate that's at the very least strong enough to beat out the wounded GOP. The Dems first test of course comes this November with the midterm Congressional elections. Who knows how this will go, though, since Americans as a whole cannot remember what occurred in the past 48 hours (why do you think weekly shows now have recaps before they begin) or perceive what will occur beyond the evening's next television program.

If we repeat our folly, however, and elect another bozo then the ire will return. But until then ... laughter. Like when I read in Bob Woodward's new book, State of Denial, that during his first run for president then Texas Governor George W. Bush needed tutors brought in by his daddy to teach him about all things foreign and domestic (I'm all for constantly learning, but come on, the guy was running for president and according to the book he didn't understand the concept of the Joint Chiefs of Staff -- I don't think I truly understand the Joint Chiefs of Staff, but I'm not running for president nor have any plans to land a fighter jet on an aircraft carrier as an absurd gesture of patriotic marketing), I'm just gonna chuckle and think, "Awww he's our president," and try to forget that this man is seriously digging the country into a hole that we've never before experienced.

A Brief Amendment To My Previous Post

2006-10-04T16:37:00.000-07:00

If you are the son of a coal miner from deep southern Illinois, often crave a loose meat sandwich and use terms like, "I'd risk the chiggers on my chode for [fill in the bland]" or "I'm drunker than 10 Indians" then you are permitted to address waitresses as "sweetie," "sweatheart," and "darling" or even pay compliments by comparing a waitress to a "peach."

Thank you Cheers Heavy for pointing out the error.

The Amateur's Guide, Chapter 7, "On Baseball and Flirting"

2006-10-04T10:48:00.000-07:00

The other night I stopped into the tavern where me ladyfriend, Sally, works. She had just clocked out and we planned to have a drink together before heading home. When I walked into the bar I noticed Sally sitting at her usual table as well as two guys standing there speaking with her. One of the guys looked like he was trying real hard to channel Creedence Clearwater Revival, while the other guy was clearly the type who had made it through life on his wits alone. As I approached and slid into the seat opposite Sally, she leaned over to give me a kiss and then introduced me. The guys were polite, though not warm. Sally caught me up on the conversation ... The one who survived on wits alone was telling a story about a Cheers episode. After Sally's brief catch-up, the guy revisited his story, which quickly -- though not hurriedly -- ended at which point the guys said their goodbyes, mostly to Sally, and headed off to find their own table. Seemed innocent enough, right?

When the dudes left I asked jokingly (which was, of course, a veiled way of being serious) if they were hitting on her? She said "no, of course not" and explained that they worked at a restaurant in the area and came in often, although that evening seemed to be the first time they'd actually had a full conversation. This essentially marked the end of the episode. Sally and I went on to enjoy our drinks and leave the bar without incident.

While it was all very simple and easy and something a "normal" person may not see any signifigance in, let me now explain why the Cheers chat seemed innocent yet was a perfectly executed example of what I like to call in flirtatous speak the "Blown No-Hitter."

When a man starts flirting with or hitting on a girl it's much like when a pitcher takes the mound for a big league start (which could be one of the reasons men like to use the term "Bush League" or "amateur," although that's mere speculation). He starts throwing his "game," an absurdly employed word describing a man's ability to bed women, and the pace of this conversation resembles that of a baseball game. For example, if "Nate" is hiting on "Anita" and the conversation lasts for, say, one hour and things are going very well then "Nate" is throwing a no-hitter, however, if "Anita" drops the word boyfriend or any reference to the word indicating to "Nate" that nothing romantic or sexual will happen between them then the no-hitter is blown at which point "Nate" must get himself out of the inning safely and without incident, aka, tactly end the conversation and say his goodbyes.

In Sally's case I'd say the guy reached the second inning. Sally, I'm quite sure, was not flirting with the guy, but she is very nice and a waitress, which to many people means "whore"* (much like ladies clothing salesman means "fag" to many people), so the guy likely perceived a green light. Sally, on the other hand, knew I would be showing up shortly so if the conversation turned ackward or flirtatous my precense was an immediate out. With the players aligned, the guy launched into a story about Cheers. This allowed him both an out -- once the story's done he can be done -- as well as a gauge to see how she reacts to his wit/humor. If the lady, in this case my ladyfriend, is impressed by his story then he can proceed into the next inning. The first inning was approaching Sally, while the second inning was the Cheers story during which his pitches were knocked around by the hitting team. He then ended the story, got out of the inning and decided to sit it out until his next start.

Now, I realize this theory has some holes, but overall I'm pleased with it and I think it works.

*Waitress is synomous with whore thanks to men who are ill-equipped at talking to women who are not required to serve them food in a restaurant or bar setting. Some of these men are simply shy and find themselves unable to talk to women, consequently a waitress -- who will often be warm and charming (remember she's working on tips here) -- is a female showing him attention. Following this warped viewpoint ... once the man realizes that the waitresses was not actually attracted to him personally she is then dubbed a "whore." The other species of men who equate waitress with whore are those who are unafraid to speak with strange women and in fact do it quite often and obnoxiously. A random woman at a bar can simply walk away from these guys, who are best depicted as middle age businessmen, youngish club-type kids and men of varous ethnicities like Italian, Latino and Eastern European. A waitress on the other hand cannot altogether ignore these guys, who often go to bars just to hit on waitresses. Because in 9 case out of 10 the waitress wants nothing to do with these men -- and even in the one instance where she does -- the men resort to objectification of the waitress best seen through their leering eyes (also know in some circles as "eye-fucking"), snide remarks as she walks past and condesending remarks suck as "hey sweetie/honey/darling/beautiful." To these even more warped individuals, objectification=whore.

Ay, Ay Captain

2006-10-03T11:18:00.000-07:00

So I've got this new computer, an HP laptop, and so far I'm quite pleased with its performance (although today the songs on itunes have mysteriously begun ever-so-slightly skipping, which they haven't done before). What I especially enjoy -- and what I suspect some may find annoying -- are the pop-ups either asking if I'd like the computer to perform some kind of update or else informing me the computer has already performed the update. This makes me feel like a ship captain. As if I'm at the helm of some ship and all the mates are reporting to me and with a nod and click of my finger I send them off quite pleased. I guess it makes me feel important.

Ramadan Mubarak...

2006-09-30T21:00:00.000-07:00

Ramadan Kareem!

I learned that today during my first Arabic class. You see, when you learn that a Muslim is fasting during Ramadan -- which is currently underway -- you say to him or her: Ramadan Mubarak. The response to this greeting is, Ramadan Kareem.

During this once-a-week, two-and-a-half hour long class we started learning half the Arabic alphabet, how to say those letters/letter combinations as well as write the letters, which are essentially squiggles with lines and dashes over them.

Why am I taking Arabic?

To become a spy ...

Okay, maybe not, but almost every time I tell someone I'm taking Arabic they ask, "Really? Do you want to be a government spy?" Official answer: no; Secret Fantasy Answer: yes; Real Answer: I don't want to actually be a spy, but I would like the CIA to approach me.

That's right. I want to be walking out of my Arabic class one gray Saturday afternoon when a suited man approaches and ushers me politely, yet briskly into a running black sedan nearby with only slightly tinted windows. We will pull away in silence and drive along the Chicago River towards some indescribable skyscraper. I won't panic, and they will not say anything until the black sedan is driven to the top of a parking garage that overlooks some of the city's testaments to modern Western Civilization: Sears Tower, Millenium Park, Navy Pier, John Hancock, etc. At this point the Spooks will make their pitch. Once it's all over I'll have to tell everyone in my life that I denied the offer, but could that really be a cover because I accepted the offer? Kinda makes you think doesn't it? Kind of like the day you start telling people your girlfriend is attending space camp for the next six weeks and four months later she turns up on a CBS reality show.

Dancing in the Streets

2006-09-29T08:15:00.000-07:00

Today is my final day at the dreaded Department Store where I am currently employed. I am so excited about this prospect that late last night I blew a fuse in my brain, which has left my current ecstatic reaction to today's milestone quite muted. Now, before I proceed, let me also mention that in December I may return to this store to work the holiday season. That's in a couple months, the question before you is what am I doing tomorrow? Well, first I'm taking a class that will hopefully prepare me for graduation school next fall. Also, to make money, I'll be working for a childhood chum and one-time college roommate helping on the administrative end of giving out flu shots to those who are healthy, wealthy and lucky to work at companies that provide them with an opportunity to receive flu shots ... Because you know something, if you don't work in an office you don't deserve good health care ...

Ride the Hatch ... Sufjan Stevens Delicately Treads His Way Into Town

2006-09-27T08:11:00.000-07:00

"It's like the best background music you'll ever hear," my friend and colleague Jeff Schwister leaned over and said to me last night. "I mean, the best background music because you can zone out and still feel okay that you zoned out."

Jeff was commenting on Sufjan Stevens, the Michigan-born-and-raised musical dynamo responsible for the records Greetings From Michigan, Seven Swan, (Come on Feel the) Illinois and others. He played last night at Chicago's Riviera Theater. Jeff, Sally and me attended. We also met Jeff's friends Chris and Amy at the show. Chris is in a band called We Run on Sonar. This band is still stretching its legs.

Sufjan, meanwhile, is great background music ... But he's also so much more than that ... he's dazzling. With a 13-piece band backing him up -- including violins, trumpets and trombones, and an overly ecstatic female bassist -- Sufjan behind his guitar or white piano painted sonic landscapes rich with texture and lyrical content. It doesn't sound much different than his studio records, but, when you stop and listen to his studio records and contemplate how much sound -- or even noise for that matter -- goes into those studio records then it's pretty amazing that Sufjan can create that same sound in a theater. Beyond the studio, seeing him perform his material live is like watching a painter -- pardon the extended cliche -- make quick broadstrokes across a canvas, dump buckets of paint onto a portrait and carefully fill in the minute details as he goes along. Sufjan tells stories with his music. Stories about childhood. And travel. And his hometown of Detroit. And even more stories -- civics lessons, actually -- about small towns in Illinois like Metropolis, Jacksonville and Decatur (although he didn't perform the latter tune last night). And then there's the songs about God (Sufjan, though he doesn't like to talk about it publicly, is a devout Christian) ... And those are real good too ... And that's alright with me.

Sufjan Stevens performing his songs about the Great State of Illinois

So ... bottom line ... if you enjoy Sufjan ... or enjoy any of the things I just talked about ... Do yourself a favor and see him the next time he rolls through town. And yes, me ladyfriend and me bought the same Sufjan t-shirt (only $10) and yes, we will be wearing them at the same time.

What Can I Say ... Toilet Humor Works

2006-09-25T09:17:00.000-07:00

I'm currently in St. Paul, Minnesota typing on a freshly purchased (not by me) Apple laptop computer in the home of Jenni and Todd -- two of me ladyfriend's dear friends and might I add, two of my (dear) friends as well. Everyone's either at work or doing something at least kind of important -- running errands, for example. Me, I'm on the couch drinking cold coffee, scouring the Internet for (new) free pornography.

One might think that not much is going on, but that one person might be very wrong. Less than one hour ago I sat down on the toilet to take care of a number 2. Now I've been in Minnesota with me ladyfriend, Sally, since late Thursday evening. We've been moving around quite a bit, making numerous visits and eating generous food portions. From Friday until yesterday (Sunday) I stayed at Sally's sister's house, which is also home to a seven-year-old, six-year-old, 13-year-old and this 13-year-old's many friends. Shortly after arriving at the sister's house I wanted to take a shit, or put more gentlemanly, do a number 2. As I made this known to the clan at the house, I was quickly chided by the 13-year-old, who said the thing she remembers most about my visits is that I "crap a lot." It's true, I noted from observing myself over the past three days, that when I visit northern Minnesota I do, in fact, crap a lot. And yet, despite my recognition of this, it still left me somewhat self-conscious and unable to fully harniss my shitting chi. This morning, however, oh this morning ... It was lovely. I had a condo to myself ... quiet and clean ... strong coffee and fresh magazine. You bet I stayed on the toilet 'til my legs fell asleep.

When I finished, on my second flush, the toilet clogged. No big deal I suppose. I used the plunger and unclogged that shit (literally). For some odd reason, though, this incident reminded me of an observation I made last night while standing shoulder to shoulder at a urinal with an unknown elderly gentleman. We, of course, avoided conversation or for that matter any recognition that the other person actually existed. Which led me to consider the only two times you'll stand shoulder to shoulder with someone and not say a word, not even make eye contact: 1) at a urinal in a men's public bathroom, 2) while using public transportation. The aforementioned Todd, whose computer I'm using and toilet I clogged, also suggested an elevator. I disagreed. At least in an elevator you'll make the obligatory head nod or "going up." Either of these at a urinal or on an inner city train could result in an accosting.

Sexiest Man Alive or Villainous Murder?

2006-09-06T22:39:00.000-07:00

I like Brad Pitt. I'm a Brad Pitt fan. I like his movies. I like seeing his pictures in the glossy celebrity rags. I think he and I would get along famously. When the world forgave Brad, but coddled Jennifer and claimed her as their own ... I sided with Brad.

And yet, I must take issue with one of his films. More accurately, I want to point out an overlooked scene of potentially horrific violence in one of his movies. The movie ... Meet Joe Black.

The film -- as described by my cable provider -- is a "diverting fantasy" about Death (Brad Pitt), who materializes as Joe Black -- a handsome young man always handsomely dressed in black suits and ties. Although Black is naive to the world -- for example, Black eats peanut butter for the first time and is delighted by the experience -- he serves as an informal advisor to William Parrish (Anthony Hopkins), a media mogul and all-around loveable Scrooge McDuck, who is to become Death's next victim. The reason Black becomes Parrish's advisor is because of a deal the pair strike ... Parrish gets more time on earth as Black enjoys a holiday from his morbid duties of killing. In the meantime, Black experiences love for the first time with Parrish's daughter Susan (Claire Forlani).

SPOILER ALERT ... IF YOU DON'T WANT TO LEARN THE MOVIE'S END ... PLEASE STOP READING.

Ultimately, Parrish attends his 65th birthday bash thrown by all his friends and family. After he's toasted his loved ones at the party Death takes Parrish for a walk to the afterlife, which is depicted in the film by the pair walking over a hill. As Parrish reaches the hill's crest, he looks proudly, happily and I'm sure sadly over the group of loved ones down below celebrating his life. He waves farewell to his daughter and descends to the other side of the hill -- that is, to death -- with Joe Black alongside him. Shortly afterwards Joe Black -- formally known as Death --emerges from behind the hill as a real human being, who is able to live and love. It's a bit melancholy, sure, but ultimately a happy ending.

Or so we think ...

I've always wondered what happens to Parrish's body after he dies on the other side of the hill. As the revelers revel, is Parrish's corpse lying nearby? Will some drunken partygoer stumble upon the host's body later that evening as he attempts to walk off and urinate or have sex with another drunken partier? Not to mention the question of Parrish's death. Are we supposed to believe he died of natural causes on the other side of the hill ... Or, did Death -- Joe Black -- actually kill him? Was there some horrible strangulation scene that hit the editing room floor? I don't know, yet it bothers everyday ... every-damn-day.

Hollywood Heartbreaker or Cinematic Killer?

Nevertheless, I'll never let the pending query sully my love for Brad Pitt.

In That Jingle Jangle Morning I'll Come Following You

2006-09-04T08:52:00.000-07:00

That's Kevin McCann and Brett Harman as youngsters. Two years ago today they were shot dead in a parking lot in Raleigh, North Carolina. When I think about them, my friendship with each one of them, or their death, or the grieving process, I'm often reminded of this verse from "Mr. Tambourine Man:"

Then take me disappearin' through the smoke rings of my mind,
Down the foggy ruins of time,
far past the frozen leaves,
The haunted, frightened trees,
out to the windy beach,
Far from the twisted reach of crazy sorrow.
Yes, to dance beneath the diamond sky with one hand waving free,
Silhouetted by the sea,
circled by the circus sands,
With all memory and fate driven deep beneath the waves,
Let me forget about today until tomorrow.

Let me indeed forget about today until tomorrow.

A Holiday In My Mind

2006-09-02T09:14:00.000-07:00

I hope all of you enjoy your holiday weekend ... Because I won't. Working in retail means I must sell lady's clothing all weekend. But, I refuse to feel sorry for myself. I'll leave that to you guys. The blogs will be sparse this weekend because I a) must work, and b) don't have a computer at the moment, nevertheless here is a link that will provide minutes of entertainment. Do you remember Danielle from Survivor Panama: Exile Island? (She's the one with the fake breasts.) This is her website. Yes, well, apparently some people try to parlay reality television fame into other sorts of undeserving fame and fortune ... I guess -- although I'm not sure -- that judging my her website she might be looking for a little something more. Like a "movie career" in the "valley."

Happy Labor Day.

I'm With Stupid?

2006-08-30T08:19:00.000-07:00

People are stupid. Right? It's quite obvious. All the signs are there. Albert Einstein -- the smartest person ever, right? -- said, "Only two things are infinite, the universe and human stupidity, and I'm not sure about the former." But, then again, Einstein helped invent the atomic bomb, which has brought this world to the brink of nuclear devastation on more than one occassion -- nuclear holocaust is stupid, right? So does that mean Einstein is stupid afterall?

Hold on, let me personalize this a bit more ... My 22-year-old co-worker, Catherine, loves the bar McGee's in Chicago's Lincoln Park neighborhood. This watering hole is truly nothing more than a filthy sports bar that every weekend turns into a meat market where very, very bad music is blarred. I think people who like this bar, say, past the age of 19 are -- in fact -- stupid. Catherine, I'm sure, thinks I'm stupid because I don't like the place. So ... Which one of us is stupid? Well, clearly her, right?

To broaden the lens once more, let's discuss what led me down this rabbit-hole ... Republicans. This morning I read about Donald Rumsfeld's recent remarks comparing those who oppose the war in Iraq with those who appeased Hitler in the mid-20th century. The Chicago Tribune article also tracked the words of President Bush's inner circle -- Rumsfeld, Cheney, Rove and Republican National Committee Chairman Ken Mehlman -- that America is far safer with Republicans at the helm as opposed to those Bin Laden loving Dems (or something to that effect). The collective remarks are geared toward influencing voters for November's mid-term Congressional elections. As I read the article I thought, "Shit, this technique could work because PEOPLE ARE STUPID."

Then again, I know at least a few proud card-carrying Republicans who will vote a straight Red State ticket come November and these people are not stupid in the traditional sense of the word.

But what is "stupid" in the traditional sense of the word? Well, according to the American Heritage Dictionary, Stupid is ...

1. Slow to learn or understand; obtuse.
2. Tending to make poor decisions or careless mistakes.
3. Marked by a lack of intelligence or care; foolish or careless: a stupid mistake.
4. Dazed, stunned, or stupefied.
5. Pointless; worthless: a stupid job

When it comes to nearly everything but politics, my Republican friends are not slow to learn, do not make poor decisions, likely would not score poorly on an I.Q. test and are certainly not pointless or worthless. (At times, though, I'm sure they are dazed or stunned.) However, according to my beliefs, in terms of politics these Republican friends are slow to learn (they fail to understand why the war in Iraq is wrong), tend to make poor decisions (voted for George Bush ... twice), do lack intelligence (at least so I think because, again, they voted for Bush ... twice) and are pointless, worthless citizens because they vote Republican. Of course, my Republican friends probably believe the same about me -- except with opposite examples.

By examining these five defintions of "stupid" it seems only two are somewhat definitive or proveable: "marked by a lack of intelligence" and "dazed, stunned, stupified." But, pertaining to the former definition, intelligence is measured through a test -- an I.Q. test, for example -- yet most of these tests have been called into question for their bias that could make it difficult for, say, an African-American kid from the inner city to answer the same question correctly compared to a wealthy white kid from the suburbs. Eliminate that definition of "stupid." So, it seems, the only definition of the word that isn't negotiable is "dazed, stunned, or stupified." For example, I would feel stupid (as in, "dazed, stunned, or stupified") if I saw a perfect slice of pepperoni slide out of my asshole.

Which leads me to an essential element for the definition of "stupid" and back to the Einstein quote. Unless you're talking about being "dazed, stunned or confused" (which, by the way, is not a useable form of stupid. How often have you used the term, "Check this out ... A perfect slice of pepperoni just came out of my ass. I feel stupid"), there is no absolute definition of stupid. The meaning of this word depends on a variety of situations like ... the era in which you live and/or the religion you do or do not subscribe to: for example, You don't think God created the earth in six days and then rested on the seventh? Man you're stupid! The country or region in which you live: for example, you don't think soccer (football) is the greatest sport in the world? Man you're stupid! Your belief in a particular ideology or political party: for example, You don't think killing Jews is cool? Man you're stupid! Or, for example, You don't think killing Arabs is cool? Man you're stupid! Your own interests, preferences, etc.: for example, you don't think McGee's is the coolest bar in Chicago? Man you're stupid!

Stupidity, therefore, is relative. As a result, the word's definition should be the following...

Stupid (stoo-pid), adj.

1. a word used by persons in a certain era, region, nation, or belonging to a certain political party, or subscribing to a particular notion, ideology or religious belief to describe other persons either in that/subscribing to era, region, nation, political party, notion, ideology, religions belief, or persons in other eras, regions, nations, political parties, notions, ideologies, religious beliefs whose opinions, actions, ideologies or beliefs they do not agree with.

2. A person who scores poorly on a test designed to measure his or her intelligence quotient, or I.Q.

3. dazed, stunned, or stupified.

If, as I mentioned, stupidity is relative, then Einstein's quote -- which I stupidly implied Einstein used to describe others and not himself -- is true. Because the word is relative to, well, everthing, stupidity is universal and will always exist.

So ... People are stupid ... Myself included ... And you too ... Although I don't care what I say ... McGee's sucks!

An Accessory Only A Mother Could Love

2006-08-28T08:50:00.000-07:00

The future King of England wears one. So does a notoriously closeted cartoon character as well as the most successful portrait painter of the early 20th century. Lots of people wear them. Lots of people would secretly like to wear them. Hell, sometimes I'd like to wear one. Truly, though, the only people who should be wearing them are 19th century European royals.

For those who watched last night's Emmy Awards they saw a talented actor, Chicago (actually Evanston) native and all-around asshole Jeremy Piven, who before the hit HBO series Entourage was known simply as John Cusack's buddy, don an ASCOT for the red carpet.

Jeremy Piven, who brought his mother and an ascot to the 2006 Emmy Awards

According to Wikipedia.org, the ascot is typically reserved for "ultra-formal" daytime occassions. In the 19th century, when the ascot premiered in Europe, it was worn during formal morning events. In the 1960s, the ascot briefly came into vogue with mod scenesters. Esquire Magazine warned in its May 2004 issue that men should not know "where to buy a good ascot."

And yet, the ascot is kind of cool. Mick Jagger wore one in the 1960s and fuuuuck he looked cool. I'd love to throw on a velvet blazer and tuck one of those insidious looking scarves into my crisp white shirt ... And you know what? Someday I might. And that day will be after a lively morning of fox hunting with British royalty as we breakfast, shortly before I am knighted for saving the Queen's life. Until that day ... Until that day ... I will coo over the eccentric hipness of those who pull the ascot off -- Mick Jagger, Fred from Scooby Doo -- criticize those who look like a true ASScot (sorry, couldn't resist) and marvel at what an all around douche bag (albeit good actor) Jeremy Piven is.

Play It Fuckin' Loud

2006-08-25T23:36:00.000-07:00

Have you listened to Bob Dylan and felt completey stupified with his lyrics, wondering how this scrubby young Minnesotan wrote lyrics that'll make you stop whatever it is you're doing and consider exactly what he just said with the immediacy of a great sermon?

Yeah. Me too.

It seems my interest in his albums is cyclical. That is, my favorite of his records rotates about every two to three years. I first fell in love with Blonde on Blonde. The tune "Visions of Johanna" remains my favorite of his songs. Next came Blood on the Tracks. Beginning to end it's a stellar record of heartbreak and the search for that very person who broke his heart. Then, I dove into his older stuff particularly Freewheelin' Bob Dylan. The highlight -- for me -- on this gem is "Girl from the North Country." Last December I took a road trip to snowy and frigid northern Minnesota with me ladyfriend. It's the land she hails from. This was my first visit. As we climbed north past the Twin Cities and into what the locals call the "Northland," I realized I'd forgotten my copy of Freewheelin' Bob Dylan and that I absolutely needed to hear "Girl from the North Country." So priority number for me -- once we arrived in Duluth -- was to head to a record store and buy the album. I did. And listened to that little ditty to death.

Anywho, now my interest has peaked on Highway 61 Revisited. It's an un-fucking-believable record, kicking off with the iconic "Like a Rolling Stone" and its blarring, bleary-eyed organ. The album's meat has some classic Dylan like "Tombstone Blues" and "Queen Jane Approximately," as well as some groovy modish-60's rockers like "From a Buick 6" and "Highway 61 Revisited." Of course, only Dylan could take a groovy mid-60s beat and combine it with lyrics like "Oh God said to Abraham kill me a son/ Abe said Man you must be putting me on / God said no / Abe said what / God said you can do what you want but the next time you see me you better run." The caboose of the record is "Desolation Row," an 11 minute odyssey of fear and loathing that only Dylan could create.

My favorite song on the record ... "Just Like Tom Thumb's Blues" ... best line from the best song on the album ... "I started out on burgundy but soon hit the harder stuff / Everybody said they'd stand behind me when the game got rough / but the joke was on me there was nobody even there to bluff / I'm going back to New York City I do believe I've had enough."

Racialism and Reality T.V.

2006-08-24T10:55:00.000-07:00

It seems Ready Bare Chested has in the last few days turned into some kind of Internet forum for people to sound-off on Ben Affleck, Matt Damon, me and others who choose to comment. I've had enough ... So I'm going to post about a subject that people never discuss on the Internet ... Reality Television, specifically SURVIVOR, the television show me ladyfriend Sally was on and consequently ruined my life, ahem, sorry, no, just kidding, totally kidding right there, that is, about the whole it ruining my life thing. In fact, her being on a reality show was awesome for this guy. I was pampered, chauffeured, slapped on the back and flown to New York twice. Not bad, I suppose.

As some of you may have noticed, CBS announced the latest cast of SURVIVOR, which was shot in the Cook Islands. The cast is certainly the most diverse of the previous 12 seasons and contains 20 castaways as opposed to the usual 16. Also of note, the castaways are split into four teams of five, each of different ethnicities: White, African-American, Latinos and Asians. Or as one person put it last night: whites, blacks, Mexicans and Orientals.

The diverse cast of SURVIVOR: COOK ISLANDS

Quite the social experiment for SURIVOR (of course 14 of the 20 cast members are from Los Angeles). I have the sneaking suspicion, however, that this will be the Disney version of racial tension. You know, kinda like Remember the Titans. Great movie, but are we really to believe that in the South in the early 1970s African-American hating rednecks never used the N-word. While I realize I'm starting to sound like a racist -- I'm not -- I feel that without proper racial slurs and stereotypes the lastest installment of SURVIVOR will simply fall short. As a result, CBS will fall back to its formula of attractive white people sprinkled with token minorities.

Or else CBS could go way off the deep end for SURVIVOR 14. The producers could set it in Beirut or Jerusalem and square off a group of Israelis and Palestinians (better yet, Israeli Massad agents and Hezbollah terrorists) and see what happens. Now that's great television!

Either way I'll see the entirety of SURVIVOR: COOK ISLANDS. Why? Because me ladyfriend -- besides being a previous cast member -- is a die hard SURIVOR fan, which means I'll see the whole damn season.

I'll keep everyone posted.

A Firestorm of Affleck

2006-08-23T08:09:00.000-07:00

Yesterday's posting about my new found admiration for Ben Affleck set off a firestorm of activity on Ready Bare Chested. It seems some share my sentiments, while othes strongly disagree. Either way it's both a delight and curiousity that this caused such a stir. Who knew Affleck was such a sticking point?

Anywho, an anonymous poster asked about my source on the information that Affleck wrote a very small, but important segment of Stephen Gaghan's (not Gaughan, sorry) Syriana. Last night I emailed my source asking if he or she could cite this information. This was his or her reply in full:

A close friend reported that at a Q&A after a Syriana screening, Stephen Gaghan said he was having a difficult time with that particular scene. He asked Matt Damon if he had ideas, who then asked Ben Affleck and the "meat" of that paragraph is said to have come from Ben or at least a rough draft of the dialogue...that's what I was told... I had a hard time believing it at first, until I saw Mr. Affleck hold court on REAL TIME WITH BILL MAHER... The dialogue in question, in my humble opinion, didn't seem to match the writing style of Mr. Gaghan and of the rythym he so wonderfully created for SYRIANA. It was a slight departure from the "style" of the rest of the film. A little younger. With less subtlety. And, sure, with a little more sass. I thought it was at least improvised upon first viewing... I've also heard that Matt Damon wrote this scene, but my money, and heart, are, as always, on Affleck. I my not have any hard evidence that Ben Affleck indeed contributed to the screenplay of SYRIANA... but I sure as sugar have evidence that he ungayed a gay.

Vote Affleck. Vote Often.

I have the utmost faith in this source and his or her gut instinct.

And indeed, "Vote Affleck. Vote Often."

Yo, Affleck Was Da Bomb In Phantoms

2006-08-22T11:48:00.000-07:00

The consensus these days is Matt Damon is the better actor than his co-star and co-writer in their breakout hit, Good Will Hunting. For years I agreed and never considered the opposite scenario. In fact, I once considered Ben Affleck a complete hack.

I've changed my mind. Afterall, he has hinted at running for a political position ... Senator Affleck, who doesn't like the sound of that.

While Affleck might not rank as the better actor than Damon, I think Affleck is given the short end of the stick as an actor and writer. I changed my mind after learning Ben Affleck actually wrote one very small, yet extremely powerful bit for the movie Syriana. The film's writer and director, Stephen Gaughan, who also wrote Traffic, asked Affleck to have a crack at the memorable scene when Matt Damon's character, Bryan Woodman, first addresses a Middle Eastern prince and oil tycoon. While standing in the desert with this Middle Eastern prince, Damon's character, Woodman, launches into a tyrade after he is offered a large financial reward and job following the accidental death of Woodman's son at the Middle Easterner's mansion ...

"But what do you need a financial advisor for? Twenty years ago you had the highest Gross National Product in the world, now you're tied with Albania. Your second largest export is secondhand goods, closely followed by dates which you're losing five cents a pound on...You know what the business community thinks of you? They think that a hundred years ago you were living in tents out here in the desert chopping each other's heads off and that's where you'll be in another hundred years, so on behalf of my firm I accept your offer."

It stands out as among the most powerful moments in the film and Ben Affleck wrote it. Now, Affleck in all likelihood could not deliver this line, but Goddamn if he can't write it. So, with this in mind, let's take a look at some of Affleck's other films where he had a starring role, the films that weren't complete shit: Chasing Amy, Mallrats, Shakespeare in Love, 200 Cigarettes, Dogma, Boiler Room, The Sum of All Fears and -- from what I've read -- the upcoming Hollywoodland. Yeah Affleck's kind of a stiff, but so is Harrison Ford in his older age, and Affleck's a helluva lot better than most of the young actors today. Plus, the whole Beniffer thing is over -- you know, when he nearly married Jennifer Lopez -- which, I believe, is really what made much of the public turn on Affleck.

So whadya say, let's give Affleck a break and punch Affleck in 2008!

Running Late

2006-08-21T09:16:00.000-07:00

I'd love to write quite a bit today about the lovely surprise party I attended this weekend, or the even lovelier dinner I enjoyed last night with some of the ladies from work, or the rockin' good times I had later last night while cosmic bowling ... Instead, I'm just gonna write that, and leave the rest for tomorrow because I'm running late and I've got to shave. I hate shaving. When I was a kid I thought shaving was gonna kick ass. And now I'd just assume have a killer neck beard that go through the process of shaving.

Irrational Fears

2006-08-18T09:24:00.000-07:00

For the last year or so I've randomly and informally polled people about their most irrational fears. These fears being some calamity that will likely never happen to us ... Or so we hope. As an example, my two greatest irrational fears are lightening and bears, which pretty much leaves me screwed when it comes to camping in certain parts of this country. True story ... Into my early 20s I experienced anxiety during lightening storms while sleeping at my parent's house, because a branch from a large old box elder tree reaches all the way to my bedroom window. This window is exactly where my head is when I sleep. As a result, I would worry that lightening would strike the tree and the current would follow the tree branch to my window and then to my head. I don't really know why I'm scared of bears, but I'll tell you this ... I'd rather face down a lion, tiger, alligator or shark before a bear (grizzly, kodiac, polar ... not those more docile ones like black or brown bears).

Anywho, I've asked other people about their irrational fears and found the following:

My friend Billy: "Deep sea creatures."
Me ladyfriend Sally: "Afraid of being afraid."
Girl I work with Catherine: "Sharks."
My manager Dorina: "Jellyfish/ocean depths."
A female acquaintenance of Billy's: "UFOs ... I had a bad experience with some as a kid."

These are all actual responses, which leads me to believe the ocean is a giant irrational fear -- one I should perhaps look into, and that some of Billy's female acquaintenances are totally fucked in the head. She really said the thing about the UFOs during a breakfast last autumn in Chicago. Oddly enough, of the others that were at the breakfast -- Billy, Sally, myself -- we failed to ask any further questions about her UFO experience. I'm kinda glad about that and yet still a little sad.

There's So Much Drama in the L-B-C

2006-08-17T09:16:00.000-07:00

I have a new show. It's young. It's fresh. It's dramatic and exciting. It's MTV's "Laguna Beach: The Real Orange County" I hate the people on this so-called reality program so much, I hate the program itself so much that I am actually in love with the whole damn thing. Pardon the cliche, but watching "Laguna Beach" is like watching a car wreck.

The season three cast

For those unfamiliar with "Laguna Beach: The Real Orange County" allow me to explain. It's a reality television show that follows a group of mainly high school seniors (although some underclassmen and post-high schoolers show up) in Laguna Beach, California -- an outrageously well-to-do hamlet tucked tidly along the Pacific Ocean in southern California. In what seems a paradise to you and me is actually teeming with human drama -- not the kind of wars and famines -- but instead that of attractive high schoolers, that is, high schoolers in a petri dish packed by MTV producers with hormones, alcohol (although it's always in plastic cups) and hot bods. The boys are horny (they are in high school, afterall) and the girls are boy crazy. And while they're all friends, they all seemingly hate each other. The majority of the cast is obsessed and impressed with wealth, although oddly enough it isn't their own wealth but instead the earning power of each other's parents. Each season (the show is now on its third season) features new cast members -- high school seniors in Laguna Beach -- as well as some returning characters from past seasons.

The show is obviously fascinating and has even spun out a handful of US Weekly-style stars and at least one -- I guess -- real star: Kristin Cavalarri, (pictured right), who is famous for fucking Nick Lachey.

(Let me take this opportunity to point out that me ladyfriend, Sally, discovered this show the other day while watching a "Laguna Beach" marathon on MTV and soon after turned me onto it. However, going back even further, my friends Darren and I believe Josh adored this show from its very inception.)

So last night, at 9pm central standard time, the third season premiered. And it looks pretty good so far. The narrator, Tessa, who is also the main character of sorts, seems fairly normal, while the remaining girls are cattier than those in the two seasons past. At first sight, the "popular" girls very much mirror the ladies in the film Mean Girls. Kyndra is attractive, blonde and potentially the Anti-Christ. Cami is the embodiment of that weird high school phenomenon where a vicious and unattractive girl is somehow uber-popular. (Perhaps it's her freakishly large breasts.) The guys, meanwhile, are more normal than the girls. All the guys, that is, except for Cameron, who "got hot over the summer." Cameron appears almost bloated and will certainly grow fat in college once he starts drinking beer heavily, eating late at night and stops working out. And, similar to last season, a love triangle involving Cameron, Kyndra and Jessica (from last season) has begun.

I basically hate all of these people, and yet I cannot quell my excitement at watching them each week on television. A fear I have concerning this show, however, is that "Laguna Beach" doesn't actually reflect high school life in America (although I will extend my disbelief to convince myself they are) -- these are extraordinary teenagers in a very extraordinary, atypical environment; as a result ordinary, typical high schoolers will begin (or already have) imitating life in Laguna Beach. Once this begins, the end is near. Of course, perhaps I'm being rash, maybe this is just the reality version of "Beverly Hills 90210," which showed off the same kind of teenage cattiness and drama (even though those playing the high schoolers were in fact in their 30s). The only outcome "90210" really gave America was the inexplicable fame of Shannon Dougherty and Tori Spelling. Now that was just plain weird.

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The First Annual Ready Bare Chested Best Dressed List

2006-08-16T14:58:00.000-07:00

In no particular order, below, is the First Annual Ready Bare Chested Best Dressed List. (For those who aren't on this list and feel their exclusion is incorrect please know this blogmaster probably just does not have a decent picture of you.)

Andrew Glarner, a 27-year-old t-shirt designer from Chicago, has spent years, decades even, blazing a trail of personal style and later breaking the very style rules he wrote. Unashamed, wholly original, indisputably original, Andrew does t-shirts like George Michael does public places -- confidentally and shamelessly. During Lollapalooza weekend, Andrew donned a new, never-before-seen t-shirt each day, one that he'd made that very morning. Undeniably his finest was a red print on white of a school bus. "I woke up that morning and thought school bus," Andrew explained, "so I silk screened a school bus onto this Hanes t-shirt." It's simple. It's cool. It's perfect.

You'd never know Darren Grady, 25, of Chicago, earns six-figures a year. For that matter, by the way he dresses, you'd never know Darren is a first-year attorney. Unlike his colleagues in their power suits and Banana Republic chinos, Darren is thrift store chic in his tattered jeans, ironic t-shirts and hipster jackets. He's always hopelessly and impeccably disheveled. And yet, like his brain, his style is clever, confident and intelligently designed.

Sally Schumann, 27, a former social worker, loved-by-all reality television star and current server, is the envy of her respective zip code. When Sally finds a style she sticks to it and single-handedly returns what was once out to that which is totally in. Whether it's an elegant nightgown, a ratty pair of overalls, designer jeans and men's t-shirt or peasanty dress, Sally is constantly dressed the part -- small town girl conquering the big city.

For many men the suit wears them, they don't wear the suit. For Billy Federighi and Chris Storer, both 25-year-old Los Angeles residents and professional belt makers, it's definitely the other way around and not just with suits but with anything they choose to wear. These men wear their clothes. For Billy, it's all 1960s all the way. (He has his pants shortened to better display his hauty Italian loafers and sockless feet.) For Chris, it's jeans and white t-shirts. In this picture, however, it's handmade suits. And man do they wear them.

He's angry and he's gourgeous. Chicago resident Tim Eberline, 26, also known as Employed Tim and formerly Unemployed Tim, is an architect who puts together outfits like a master architect designs a building. It takes hardwork, yet the end product looks effortless. His clothes reek of gentleman (and cigarettes). Like his architectural designs, the clothes are tidy and modern with a nod to the classical. And when he gets angry, no one does an unbuttoned collar and loosened tie better than this crazed architect.

The enigmatic and mysterious BD, 25 or 26, of Chicago, defines his style in the shadows and along the fringes of cool. During the daylight hours, as he sells real estate, BD sports gray and navy blue suits like a drunken aristocrat playing the slot machines. When the work day is over he swaps slacks for jeans, loses the dress shirt and keeps the v-neck undershirt and blazer. It's understated and hip -- the very essence of cool.

Larissa Schroeder, this 25-year-old floral designer from Chicago whose pictured (right) alongside her sister, looks like a 1950s starlit, hell, she even talks like one throwing out expressions like "aw shucks" and "YIKES!" like it was scripted by some paid-by-scale patter writer, who got his start on "My Two Dads." She never wears jeans. In fact, I don't think she even owns jeans. Instead, Larissa wears dress ... and oh-boy does she wear dresses. Knee length and cap-sleeved -- sometimes pockets -- patterned or straight-up black, she turns breakfast into an elegant affair or dinner into a timeless charade.

Larissa's fiance, George Bradley Shorten, 29, is funny. Actually, he isn't funny, he's damn goofy -- outright hilarious, even -- but like his style, his humor is understated. It sneaks up on you and before you know it you're impressed. George, a bartender, doesn't let his humor get in the way of his relationships, just like his simple style doesn't get in the way of his humor. It's jeans. It's t-shirt. It's sneakers. It's easy. And it's fantastic.

For 29-year-old mixed martial arts fighter Rob Harman it isn't so much a style as it is an anti-style. He doesn't give a shit about fashion, style or, for the most part, what he looks like at all, which is exactly why this picture of Rob taken moments before he won his first amateur mixed martial arts fight is the essence of style. The tattoo on his stomach says, "MENACE," and that's exactly what he is to the fashion world -- a menace. And do you know what Rob would say about this list, the men on this list and even his inclusion on this list, "Dude, that's so fuckin' gay."

Where Baseball and Fashion Intersect, aka, the Third Baseman's Wife

2006-08-15T10:16:00.000-07:00

Yesterday, while selling lady's clothing, I spent two hours helping none other than the wife of White Sox third baseman Joe Crede. Wow! Isn't that exciting!?!

Okay, so I'm feigning excitement because I don't really give a shit about the White Sox. I don't hate the White Sox -- like some Cubs fans will proclaim, I just don't care about them. When they were in the World Series last October and more than half the Sox hating Cubs fans were suddenly saying, "Well, you know, I'm a baseball fan," or the remaining Cubs fans were spewing venehemous vile about the Southsiders, I was sitting at home not giving a shit. Yeah, I watched a couple of Sox playoff games, more than a couple actually, probably like a few, but all the while it was as a detached observer, similar to if the Kansas City Royals were playing the St. Louis Cardinals, for example. (If I had to pick a team I "hated" it would likely be the New York Yankees or the St. Louis Cardinals, although even the Cardinals I have some sympathy for due to the ex-Cubs that are either currently on the team or were on the team.)

I digress.

So, yeah, Joe Crede's wife, whose name is certainly easy to find on the Internet, yet I will not disclose. She's my customer and that holds some privilege (I know, I'm laughing too). Anywho, she came in yesterday afternoon looking for cute, warmer tops because she "spends a lot of time outside during the evening." I had no idea what this meant as she had not yet revealed that she was in fact the wife of a baseball player. Together we selected numerous pieces and she tried on each one and was very nice and sweet about the whole thing -- apologizing when she inappropriately hung a shirt. She discussed her two young children and explained that during the summer she lives in Chicago and come winter time the family relocates to its rural home elsewhere (again, I'm not gonna say where exactly).

To make a long story short, she bought quite a few tops and one jacket, assured me she would be shopping with me again this week for jeans and gave me carte blanche to pick out more clothes for her.

But, how did I find out she was Crede's wife? Well, I asked why she spent her summers in Chicago and winters elsewhere and she very quietly said, "My husband plays baseball." Interested, I replied, "Do you mind if I ask who he is?" She answered: "Joe Crede." As I considered her situation, a metaphorical light bulb slowly lit -- a process I'm sure she noticed, and I said, "Oh, 'spends a lot of time outside during the evenings,' like at baseball games. I get it." I was impressed by my skills of deduction. I don't know if anyone else was.

The number one question my co-workers asked me (they're all ladies), at least the ones who knew baseball and proclaimed that Joe Crede is hot, was "what did she look like?" Well, she was cute, I wouldn't say hot, but cute with a very slim body. Jean size: between a 25 and 26, and that's after two kids.

Bottomline, though, "hot" Joe Crede's wife doesn't hold a candle to me lovely ladyfriend. It looks like I've got the trump card on a multi-millionaire athlete and I'm the poorest bastard I know. It must be my bare chest always being prepared, or, ready.

A Frighteningly Delicious Sandwich

2006-08-14T09:21:00.000-07:00

Two kinds of food I love: bacon and liverwurst. Yes, I love liverwurst. Yesterday I went to the grocery store and bought some liverwurst, bread and Swiss cheese. Today, I cannot wait to make myself a liverwurst sandwich and later ... eat it. Will my breath smell like a pig's ass? Yes. Do I care? No. Will this potentially scare away customers as I continue this wretched experiment in selling lady's clothing? I hope so.

But where does the bacon figure in to this scenario? Good question.

Sometimes I fantasize about the ultimate meat sandwich ... liverwurst and bacon. Honestly, this combination frightens me a bit. But, I have a plan. On my birthday, which is in October, I plan to give myself a present ... a bacon and liverwurst sandwich. I'll let you know how this goes when the times comes.

Hell, Sox Fans and Bratty High School Kids: That which keeps me distracted for that which I do

2006-08-13T09:03:00.000-07:00

During my train ride to work yesterday, while my coffee tasted like dirty dish soap (but I drank it anyway), I lapsed into the fourth circle of hell ... Irrevelance, people bumping into each other and pushing rocks ... Plus, surrounding me in the train car were dozens of rowdy White Sox fans: big dudes with A.J. Pierzynski jerseys and bad haircuts and Sox tattoos and their women with way too short cutoffs that allowed cellulite to spill forth across the train car and clear high heels. It didn't make for a positive start to the day.

Then, after work, I was set to go to a nightclub with a friend of mine, Jeff Schwister, but instead me ladyfriend and me watched season 2 reruns of that steamy, sassy and oh-so-catty MTV reality drama Laguna Beach. I'd like to say we didn't go to the nightclub out of exhaustion -- and sure that had something to do with it -- but let's be honest, once you get started with a serious Laguna Beach habit the tendency is to push it all the way.

A Desperate Man, Feel Sorry For Him

2006-08-12T08:08:00.000-07:00

Top 7 activities I'd rather do than go to work this afternoon:

7. Bow Hunting
6. Spend the day with 3 overzealous -- yet horny -- born again Christians
5. Spend the day with 3 overzealous -- yet horny -- extremist Muslims
4. Listen to the entire Nick Lachey collection and attempt to draw positive and somewhat insightful conclusions about his canon of work (yes, I'm a desperate man, plus, recall I will hear James Blunt's "Beautiful" a minimum of three times today)
3. Passing a kidney stone
2. Giving handjobs on the subway
1. Golfing

I Don't Play By The Rules

2006-08-11T09:06:00.000-07:00

Last night me ladyfriend and me were watching the pilot episode of Miami Vice. My brother proudly owns the first season of the television show, which first aired in August 1984. It should be noted that my older brother, Donny, bought Miami Vice season 1 roughly two years ago, well before the movie hype began. In fact, Donny doesn't even want to see the Miami Vice movie for fear that it will be a total abhoration from the original series.

But, I digress.

As inspired by Don Johnson's character in the show, I'm thinking I'll go into work today (to sell lady's clothing) wearing something pastel and a little wrinkled, unshaven and vaguely stinking of booze and cigarettes ... ala Det. James "Sonny" Crocket. When my manager asks me what's up I'll just croak, "I don't play by the rules." And then later, as some woman is hemming and hawing about whether or not to buy a pair of jeans I'll grumble a classic movie detective line like, "I picked a bad day to quit drinking."

Yup, it's all part of the lady's clothing salesman job.