Recently in Life In These United States Category

I'm sure I've said this before, but at the risk of repeating myself (and that risk has never stopped me before), many of my Hates have dissipated as I get older. In keeping with my Renewed Positive Outlook on Life, I've tried to whittle down my Hates to the most essential and manageable--i.e., specific things that I can actively change. Everything else should get nothing stronger than a shaking of my fist.

But there are a few Blanket Hates I still carry around with me, and one of them popped up recently. When the Mega Millions jackpot rose to a ridiculously large jackpot, NY1 interviewed hopeful lotto players about what they would do with their winnings. Their answers were nothing infuriating--retire, pay off debt, and so on. And yet when I saw these people spending hypothetical riches, I wanted to throw my remote through the TV. What a buncha jerks, I thought.

Immediately, I questioned the virulence of my own hate. Why get so mad at these people? So they want to play the lotto and dream up imaginary wealth--who cares?

And then I remembered my summer working at a convenience store, dispensing all forms of lotto, and I questioned my hate no more.

Within minutes after the news of Gary Coleman's death broke, the Intertubes rattled with one unfunny joke after another. It made me briefly happy that I've never become famous. Otherwise, random strangers might think that me dying at a criminally young age from head trauma was hilarious.

Of course, Gary Coleman wasn't a walking punchline simply because he was once famous. There's a lot of ex-stars who fit this bill--MC Hammer springs to mind. But the cruel, twisted anti-fame Coleman suffered from was a special kind, the kind that can only be inflicted on that most reviled form of ex-fame: child stardom. Not even debutards like Nicole Richie or the Kardashians--who have contributed not one single positive thing to this earth--are mocked the way that former child stars are once they hit puberty.

Child stars are chewed up and spit out on both ends--by a fickle public, and by weird, sociopathic stage parents who drive them to succeed long before they can make decisions for themselves. Thanks to decades of unsavory examples, people expect the worst of former child stars, and even if they never go down the primrose path, they will be hounded by paparazzi and curiosity seekers who can't believe that the Macauly Culkins of the world dared to grow up.

Coleman's living purgatory was exacerbated by a congenital kidney ailment that stunted his growth. At least some child stars have a theoretical chance to move beyond their past. Gary Coleman was forced to look like like a child long after anyone had any use for his schtick.

He also had the misfortune of acting on a show that had two of the more fantastic ex-child star meltdowns in history. Dana Plato left Diff'rent Strokes to rob video stores, act in porn, and OD on prescription painkillers. Todd Bridges became a drug addict and dealer with repeated run-ins with the law.

Gary Coleman got into some physical altercations with strangers, but much of that was provoked by people who wanted to fuck with him (granted, he also had some domestic disputes, and was charged as the aggressor in at least one of them). But his post-sitcom life was considered more sordid than sad because he caught the shrapnel of his ex-costars' explosions. Bridges and Plato blew up, and Coleman was collateral damage.

Anything bad that happened to him was labeled another sick chapter in the "hilariously" awful Diff'rent Strokes saga. Like how he had to sue his parents because they mismanaged his assets and left him broke. That horrible circumstance was put on the same level, in the public's mind, as Todd Bridges slinging crack, even though Bridges was a drug-dealing creep and Coleman was victimized by his mother and father.

Gary Coleman is one of the most egregious examples of what I call The Vanilla Ice Syndrome. Vanilla Ice's debut album sold 11 million copies, but almost overnight he turned into a pop culture whipping boy. The savageness directed at Vanilla Ice was in direct proportion to how honestly popular he once was. Once people decided they were done with him, and realized he kinda sucked, they had to mock him to compensate for once liking him.

The Vanilla Ice Syndrome is especially vicious when the ex-star in question was beloved by children and/or teenyboppers. At that stage, most kids don't really have much taste at all except liking what's popular. Violently rejecting something you liked when you were 12 is a way of showing you've grown up. In other words, I fear for Miley Cyrus' future.

In the late 70s/early 80s, Gary Coleman was one of the hugest stars in America. He was one of the most beloved and recognizable people in the country. Then, after eight seasons on the air, his act grew stale. But it wasn't good enough for people to just not watch Diff'rent Strokes anymore. They had to shit all over the guy because they once loved what he did. It was a product of the collective embarrassment over making someone famous for saying "watchu talkin bout Willis". He had to pay for the rest of us feeling so retroactively dumb.

So when he died, a lot of people couldn't resist the temptation to make lame cracks, most of them using that catchphrase. I know this is a hard concept to grasp in the Internet Age, but not everything is a springboard for your savage wit. It's okay to let something pass without making a snotty remark about it. It's okay to not spit out the absolute first thing that pops in your head when you hear about someone's death.

People made jokes after Dennis Hopper died, but at least Dennis Hopper lived a long life and was able to enjoy a second act of his career. Gary Coleman died at age 42, never got to live a non-shitty life after his heyday, and had troubles that were mostly not self-inflicted. No other details of his life make that even remotely funny. And if you think it is funny, pray no one's laughing if you get hit by a bus tomorrow.

The current anti-immigration nonsense in Arizona would be funny if it wasn't so terrible. A state comprised of territory swiped from Mexico in one of America's most egregious instances of imperialism, and which has a Spanish name, has now enabled law enforcement officials to demand extraordinary documentation from anyone they suspect might be "illegal". That takes some chrome-plated balls, or some extreme ignorance of history.

Of course, the rationale behind these anti-immigrant measures is along the lines of, "This time is special. These people are taking over. They don't want to speak the language or be a part of our culture. They're not like the people who used to come here." It is the exact same rationale that's been trotted out by every anti-immigrant faction against every single group that's ever come to these shores. It wasn't true when the anti-Irish Know Nothing Party spewed this nonsense in the early 1800s, and it isn't true now.

People who think immigrants want to come here just to loaf around, collect welfare, and live high on the hog have no idea what it means to immigrate, to leave the place where they were born and start a new life in a strange land. I think about my grandfather, who left Ireland, his wife, and his two children behind to move to New York all by himself, because he could only afford to come here alone. He worked for two full years until he could send for his family and begin to build a life.

Can you even imagine doing that, for one second? And no, moving from one state to another is not even close to the same thing. People who are lazy and looking for a fast buck don't immigrate, because such people have neither the motivation nor the fortitude to survive such a move.

My grandfather's experience happened almost 60 years ago, but I feel like this is still a fairly typical immigrant experience. And my grandfather had the advantage of speaking English (of a kind, anyway) and belonging to an ethnic group that was already assimilated. I can't imagine what it's like for someone who doesn't speak the language, and who can't help but look "foreign" to most Americans.

We should want people to come to this country from other lands for the same reason we've always wanted new arrivals. Because an immigrant is someone who woke up one day, looked at the messed-up world around him/her, and said, "I've had enough of this shit."

They may have felt this way because they weren't free to say and do as they pleased. Or maybe their homeland offered them no opportunity to rise above the station to which they were born. Regardless of the reason, while everyone else around them said, "I guess this isn't so bad, I don't mind living in abject poverty, and the secret police are using softer jackboots these days", immigrants said, "Fuck this, I'm out." We should want the kind of people who want better for themselves.

Countries like France and England agonize over who can truly be English/French. America should be above that. The great thing about being American is it is an evolving thing. Anyone can potentially come here and consider themselves (and be considered) American. A hundred years ago, the idea that an Italian could be an American was ridiculous to many people (as this horrible cartoon should display). Now, every single person in this country eats pasta at least once a week, and there's few cheap meals that are more American than a slice of pizza. So why are so many people bent out of shape about Mexicans coming here? We already know their food is amazing! 

This obsession with exclusion and purity is both racist and shortsighted. Everything good about our country, everything the world loves about us, comes from the mixture of different cultures. Just think of all the music that was born in America, and how none of it would be possible in a homogenous society. Even the best music from other countries is a result of people in those countries trying to imitate American music they liked. Mick Jagger and Keith Richards trying to sound like Howlin' Wolf = The Rolling Stones.

It reminds me of a joke I heard years ago (apologies to the comedian whose name I can't recall). He said races should be forced to mix, for the good of humankind. Because if you get two ugly white people together, you get an ugly white baby. You get two ugly black people together, you get an ugly black baby. You get an ugly white person and an ugly black person together, you get Halle Berry.

It's chilling that there is a state in the union where police officers now literally ask to see people's papers, a la Nazi Germany. And of course, despite assurances that there would be no racial profiling under this new law, there were egregious examples of it within hours of its passage, like an American-born truck driver who was slapped in handcuffs because he couldn't produce a birth certificate.

And yet, I don't fear for the future. Maybe I'm naive, I but I feel like laws such as this are so antithetical to what America is that they are doomed to fail. Maybe it'll be in a few months, when someone challenges the law and it's struck down for being unconstitutional. Maybe it'll have to wait a few years, when there's not a racist monster in the governor's mansion. But it will happen.

I look forward to that day, and to the day when the descendants of Mexican immigrants are seen as just as American as everyone else. And we will all band together as one to keep out the influx of extraterrestrial migrant workers from Omicron Persei-8. Cuz they ain't like you or me--they got three hearts and antennae!

From: Human Resources (hr@technotek.com)

To: All_Staff (staff@technotek.com)

Re: Fridge Cleaning

 

Just a heads up that we've scheduled a fridge cleaning in the fourth floor kitchen this weekend. The cleaning staff will throw out any unmarked food, so if you want to keep something, please use the little yellow DO NOT DISCARD stickers we've posted in the kitchen.

 

If anyone has any questions about this at all, please let me know. Thanks!

 

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From: Bill_Thompson (bthompson@technotek.com)

To: All_Staff (staff@technotek.com)

Re: Re: Fridge Cleaning

 

Hey Fred, does this mean they're gonna toss some of those science projects you got in there? They'll need a hazmat suit to touch that stuff! LOL

 

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From: Angela_Williams (awilliams@technotek.com)

To: All_Staff (staff@technotek.com)

Re: Re: Re: Fridge Cleaning

 

Bill, if you want to send a jokey email to Fred on company time, that's your business. But don't hit "Reply All" when you do it and clog up everyone's Outlook inbox.

 

* * *

 

From: Bill_Thompson (bthompson@technotek.com)

To: All_Staff (staff@technotek.com)

Re: Re: Re: Re: Fridge Cleaning

 

Angela, I find it ironic you would send me a snotty email about pressing "Reply All" that is itself a "Reply All" message.

 

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At a time when most sectors of the economy are suffering, Death reported record profits for the first quarter of 2010, prompting surprise from the world of finance and resentment from the general public.

"I think we all knew this was  a good year for Death, but no one dared dream it was this good," said Goldman Sachs CEO Lloyd Blankfein. "The smart investor who bet on Death this year is now reaping the rewards."

"I believe if you look at it in aggregate, Death's profits aren't that much larger than this time last year," said Harold Long, economics professor at Columbia University, upon hearing the news. "But a few high profile acquisitions paint Death as this greedy, heartless entity. Even I was taken aback when Death acquired Teddy Pendergrass, Alex Chilton, and Jay Reatard all within the span of two months. It just comes across as overkill."

Death's diversified holdings have expanded to acquiring assets in all fields. Its film department was enlarged by the addition of Erich Rohmer, and its literary department by J.D. Salinger. The arrival of Bea Arthur added to Death's already considerable actress and gay icon divisions.

While this embarrassment of riches has delighted Wall Street, it has led to resentment on Main Street. Such excess seems especially galling to unemployed workers like Frank Renfro of Detroit, recently laid off from his job at a decorative candle manufacturing company.

"Enough is never enough with these people," Renfro said. "All they do is take, take, take. It's not good enough they got one former child star when they picked up Boner from Growing Pains. No, they gotta grab Corey Haim, too. And to top it off, they gobble up Art Clokey! I didn't even know he was still around! What are they even gonna do with the guy who created Gumby? Put him on a pile over at the big ol' Death mansion, I guess. Makes me sick."

In response to the criticism, Death called a press conference, where CEO Grim Reaper pointed a bony finger at the assembled host, as the faint but unmistakable sound of scythes being ground against enormous wheels screeched in the distance.

I keep a bottle of Sriracha in the kitchen at my office. Sriracha is also known as THE BEST HOT SAUCE CRAFTED BY THE HAND OF MAN. I don't use it too often, but it's a nice thing to have handy when your lunch needs an extra kick.

Today, as I went to the kitchen to fetch my lunch, I saw my bottle of Sriracha on the countertop. I knew it was mine because it has my hand-written note on it instructing the cleaning people not to throw it out (because they can and will throw out everything unless instructed not to).

The top was opened (it has an attached cap that unscrews like an Elmer's glue bottle) and some of its contents were dripping down the side. I also noticed that a lot more of the sauce had been used since I last used it. I'm pretty sparing in my hot sauce application, but it had obviously been applied liberally--by other people--since I last used it.

A coworker was in the kitchen at the time, waiting for his lunch to heat up in the microwave. It was unclear to me if this person was responsible for using my Sriracha. I didn't recognize him, either, because there are new people in and out of the place all the time.

I pondered what would be the correct approach to this situation. After all, using someone else's condiment is not like eating someone else's lunch (which has happened to me more than once at my current place of employ). But I personally would not use somebody else's condiments, and I felt like it was a little uncool that someone would just something that does not belong to him/her.

As I wondered what to do, the coworker removed his lunch from the microwave and left, leaving the Sriracha untouched. Now, again, I don't know if this particular person availed himself of my Sriracha. But whether it was him or someone else, he/she did so and just left it on the counter, unopened, with hot sauce dripping from the cap.

That is definitely unacceptable. So I grabbed my Sriracha and deposited it my desk. You're supposed to refrigerate it, but I'll sacrifice freshness for the sake of not having thieves and slobs pawing and mistreating it. Sorry folks, but you lost your Sriracha privileges.

I'm not nuts, right? I am totally within my rights to be stupidly pissed off about this, yes? Please reassure me.

There's part of me that could care less about Roman Polanski's current predicament. Arrest him, don't arrest him--who cares? Thirty-plus years after the fact, is pursuing one criminal really so important? Surely, the Los Angeles DA's office could use their resources toward more pressing matters, like bringing Vic Mackey to justice.

But then I read sophistic articles with cherry-picked morality, like a guest op-ed by Robert Harris in yesterday's New York Times. That's when I think, lock him up and throw away the key. Because Polanski doesn't seem to have a leg to stand on, save for those extended by famous folks who want him to remain free because he's such a wonderful artist, and his crime was committed more than 30 years ago.

Did you know that once enough time has passed, everything's okay? Hoorah! These same folks never seem to mention the fact that he raped a 13-year-old. (I heartily recommend an excellent takedown of many of Polanski's defenders penned by Kate Harding at Slate).

And yes, I realize that for some offenses, statutes of limitation mean that enough time = okay. Rape is not such an offense.

The piece by Harris (a novelist by trade), like many defending Polanski, hinges its case on a few items that stem more from personal biases than any legal or moral grounds. In Harris's case, it's because he works with him. And so have other people. And some people seem to like him so, hey, it's all good!

For more than two and a half years I have been working almost continuously with the director Roman Polanski...I have never collaborated with anyone more closely.

So when...the news broke that Mr. Polanski had been arrested ...my first response was to feel almost physically sick. Mr. Polanski has become a good friend. Our families have spent time together. His daughter and mine keep in regular touch. His past did not bother me, any more (presumably) than it did the three French presidents with whom he has had private dinners, or the hundreds of actors and technicians who have worked with him since 1977, or the fans who come up to him in the streets of Paris for his autograph.

If a friend of mine was arrested, I'd feel pretty awful too. But if that friend was arrested because he'd eluded a rape conviction for 30+ years, I might feel a little less awful. That's just me.

I'm sure fans come up to Roman Polanski and ask for his autograph. I'm also sure if John Wayne Gacy was walking down the street, he'd be approached for autographs, too. They're both famous. For many people, the reason why you're famous doesn't matter; they just want to approach Fame.

Hundreds of actors and technicians have worked with him? Great. Most of those actors and technicians are working people not in a position to turn down a paycheck, no matter who provides it.

As for French presidents' opinion of Polanski, which presidents? You could say someone was admired by an American president, but if that president was Dubya, I'd hold that admiration in low regard. Just because someone's an elected official, that doesn't make them a great person, or even a good person.

If Mr. Polanski is such a physical danger and moral affront to civilized society that he must be locked up, even at the age of 76, why was he not picked up earlier, when he was 66, or 56 -- or even 46? It would not have been hard to grab him at his home: his name is on the doorbell.

Except that France would be unlikely to extradict him on "he is such a great artist!" grounds. Also, keep in mind that France ain't exactly the most sensitive nation when it comes to women's issues. (Serge Gainsbourg is a national hero there so, 'nuff said.) Over there, Polanski is being portrayed as the victim, because his victim's mother "forced" the girl on him. And just look at what she was wearing! She was asking for it! And by it, we mean "being fed champagne and quaaludes, then sexually assaulted while repeatedly saying 'no'."

On only five occasions -- right at the outset, when he flew to London; in 1986, when it was rumored he might visit Canada; in 1988, when it was suggested he might be headed to Brazil, or elsewhere in Europe; in 2005, when he went to Thailand; and in 2007, when he visited Israel -- do overseas authorities seem to have been contacted by the district attorney with specific information about his presence. This is hardly a red-hot manhunt.

A local DA's office--even for a large city like LA--doesn't have the resources to track a fugitive around the globe. In order to make inquiries like the ones Harris alludes to, a DA's office has to have cause. In order to have cause, you have to have tips. Where do these tips come from? Wherever they can get them. And the longer a case goes unresolved, the less frequently tips trickle in.

Plus, they would need to nab Polanski in a country where the government would be likely to hand him over to the US. All of this needs to be considered before you send someone on a plane to fetch him. You can't go send a spare cop to a city where he might be and the local authorities might let you extradict him. Because if you do, and he's not there--or worse yet, he is there but you're not allowed to arrest him--it's much less likely you'll ever get another chance to bring him to justice.

It sounds very much as though Mr. Polanski became overconfident, both in the rightness of his own cause and in the safety of Switzerland as a refuge -- a country that after the credit crisis suddenly seems to be much more eager to cooperate with international authorities. Its volte-face on its famous guest has drawn understandable contempt and Mr. Polanski, in his cell, now has plenty of time to ponder the limits of Swiss hospitality.

I admit, I find it odd that Switzerland of all places would turn over Polanski. Especially since they're still holding onto Nazi gold.

I make no apology for feeling desperately sorry for him. The almost pornographic relish with which his critics are retelling the lurid details of the assault (strange behavior, one might think, for those who profess concern for the victim) makes it hard to consider the case rationally. Of course what happened cannot be excused, either legally or ethically.

"Except I'm totally excusing it right now."

But Ms. Geimer [Polanksi's victim] wants it dropped, to shield her family from distress, and Mr. Polanski's own young children, to whom he is a doting father, want him home. He is no threat to the public. The original judicial procedure was undeniably murky. So cui bono, as the Romans used to say -- who benefits?

Yes, it's okay to feel sorry for Polanski, if you feel that way. Yes, the coverage of his arrest has been salacious and sensationalistic. Yes, his victim says she forgives him. Yes, I'm sure he's a loving father and his family misses him. Yes, there were some issues about his original trial.

The response to all of these questions is: So fucking what?

Your sympathy doesn't excuse his crime. Nor do salivating news networks. Nor does him being a wonderful father (how many horrible, horrible people love their own kids?). Nor do the details of his trial. Nor, sadly, does his victim's feelings on the matter.

Why not? Because he was tried and convicted of raping a 13-year-old girl. He's never denied doing it. And nothing he's done in his life since then has forced him to pay for that. Since fleeing to Europe, he's lived the opulent life of a celebrity and continued to make films. What kind of message does it send to not arrest him? Stay out of the country 30 years and you too can beat a rape conviction?

You may enjoy Polanski's films, and that's fine. That has no bearing whatsoever on whether or not he goes to jail. Would you feel better about his arrest if he was a Roger Corman-esque director of schlock? How about if he was just some ordinary schmuck who raped a 13 year old? Think he'd be able to hide in plain sight for the last 30 years and get op-eds in the Times written to defend him?

Roman Polanski did a horrific, unforgiveable thing. Does Rosemary's Baby mean he doesn't have to atone for it?

Being a parent is hard. Everyone knows this, whether you have kids or not. But you can't know the true depths of how difficult parenting is until you have a kid. Don't mean to pull rank. It's just true.

There's no one particular thing about being a parent that takes Herculean effort. You get used to doing certain tasks very quickly. Feeding, dressing, burping--no big deal, any of them. Yes, you can even get accustomed to touching another human being's feces on a regular basis. After a while, it's not a big deal. To this day, I'm more grossed out by baby food than I am by baby poop.

What is a big deal is the fact that it never ends. There is no punching out. There is no weekend. You are on red alert 24/7, and anything you do--even if it's the absolute right thing to do--may scar your child for life. It's like being in a combat zone, only not so relaxing.

I say this because I ran across a video yesterday that gave me pause, in which a mother drags her kid (who's on a leash-type restraint) across the floor of store. Your reaction to it probably depends on whether you have a kid or not.

If you don't have a kid, you are likely think this is HORRIBLE and INEXCUSABLE and this woman SHOULD BE LOCKED UP AND NEVER BE ALLOWED TO BREED AGAIN!!1! The state of Alabama agrees with you, because they've thrown this woman in jail and are threatening to take her child away from her.

If you do have a kid, you probably think: Yeah, she shouldn't have done that. But...

Because every parent has been driven to a point where they've contemplated doing something like this. Or something in the same ballpark. If you say you've never thought about dragging your kid home, you either have a team of au pairs or you're a fucking liar.

Especially if you have a two-year-old. That is a very special age where a child asserts his/her independence but cannot be reasoned with in any way. It's impossible to completely placate a two-year-old, because their whims operate under the laws of quantum mechanics. Call it The Toddler Uncertainty Principle: The more you think you've pinned down what they want, the more likely it is those desires just shifted in a completely different direction.

Two-year-olds have no agenda but their own pleasure and chaos. It's like living with The Joker.

All this video shows is 30 seconds of a mother reacting poorly. It doesn't show all the events leading up to the mother's meltdown. Maybe this kid ran around the store like a maniac and didn't listen to a word his mother said. Maybe he hauled off and hit her when she said he couldn't have some dumb fuckin' plastic toy he wanted. Maybe she heeded every direction that came out his mouth, and he still screamed "I hate you!"

Yeah, two-year-olds do that all the time. If an adult made demand after demand of you, and you met every single one, and they said, "Guess what? I hate you!", what would you do? You'd kick that person in the dick is what you'd do. It's hard to turn off the "I've just been horribly insulted" impulse in your brain, even if it's your own flesh and blood disrespecting you.

You may be inclined to say, "It's the mother's own fault for raising an unruly child." Two-year-olds are unruly. There's nothing more unruly in nature, not even the sub-atomic world. Scientists are still trying to figure out why this tiny universe operates in ways that seem to completely defy the laws of physics. And we still know more about quarks than we do about two-year-olds.

I don't care how well you've raised your kid, how many Baby Einstein tapes you've bought, how many foreign language flash cards you zipped in front of their face. Once they hit a certain age, they turn into monsters. It doesn't last forever, but it might feel like it does.

Also keep in mind that two-year-olds are prone to complete and total meltdowns that have no real solution. In those cases, the best thing to do is let your kid cry/kick/punch their way out of it (while making sure they don't hurt themselves or others, of course). That may lead you to look callous or negligent to others--as I found out during a trip to the ER earlier this year.

But you know what? Fuck the rest of the world. As a parent, it's not your job to satisfy some idealistic BS idea of what good parenting should look like. Anyone who hasn't spent an entire day being screamed at by a two-year-old has no right to judge.

Say your kid is screaming because he wants candy. He hasn't had any dinner yet, so you say no. He flips out, making you look like The World's Worst Dad to everyone else in Duane Reade. You could get him some candy to keep him quiet, and that might make the situation less embarrassing for you.

But is that good parenting? Of course not, for a million different reasons. All you'd do is give your kid a lesson that if he screams loud enough, you'll do anything he says. And for what? So you could look better for a bunch of people who don't know you and who you'll never see again. "I've turned my child into a sociopath, but at least that weird old lady with the support hose and the purple hair at the prescription counter stopped staring at me!"

Should this woman have dragged her kid? Of course not. But I don't think she made a conscious decision to do that; she just snapped. And I totally understand how a person could snap like that. I hope her home state will see it that way (assuming this was just a moment of insanity for her).

Seeing this video made me think of Louis CK's bit on parental meltdowns. "What did that shitty kid do to that poor woman?!"

AP--For many Americans, it was the defining moment of their generation. All who witnessed can tell you exactly where they were when it happened. And though for some of us it may seem as if it happened just yesterday, today marks the 40th anniversary of the so-called "moon-landing."

Across the nation, millions will pause and take time to remember that moment when America tried to pull the wool over the world's eyes and pretend it put men on the moon. Some will watch old footage of this total mockery of science. Others will pull out old newspapers and marvel at the primitive techniques of photographic trickery that tried to sell this deception to a sheep-like public. Still others will send threatening notes to NASA, begging them to reveal the secrets behind this cheap facade that laughs in the face of truth itself.

"I remember watching it on TV, and seeing Neil Armstrong plant that flag on the moon," said Jerry Derwood, a part-time web designer from Skokie, Illinois. "And seeing the Stars and Stripes wave in the lunar sky, I thought to myself 'Hey, there's no atmosphere on the moon! That flag shouldn't be waving! Something's fishy here!'"

In his spare time, Derwood runs the web site NeilArmstrongSuperfraud.com, one of roughly 675 million moon-conspiracy-related sites that have received a huge amount of hits in the last month, thanks to the hoopla surrounding the anniversary of The Great Moon Sham of '69.

"A lot of kids can't imagine what it was like back then to witness something like this," Derwood said. "These days, ridiculous frauds are foisted on the American public all time. But children of my generation hadn't yet seen such a blatant, cynical attempt to play on our emotions."

Derwood plans to celebrate the event by standing at the foot of Buzz Aldrin's driveway, demanding that he submit himself to a polygraph test.

Others will celebrate more peacefully, such as Mark Harlin, a freelance copyeditor who runs the web site TheMoonandOtherLies.com. "There's no point in harassing the quote-unquote spacemen," Harlin said. "They were merely pawns in the vast games of The Cold War and the machinations of the military industrial complex. Besides, there's nothing I could do that would make these guys' live any worse than they already are. How would you feel if you were party to such a snarled tapestry of lies, one that threatens to unravel at any moment? I wouldn't wish that kind of living hell on my worst enemy."

Harlin then launched on a 27-minute monologue about how no human being could withstand the radiation of the Van Allen belt.

This morning, President Obama marked the occasion with a speech punctuated by numerous ironic air-quotes.

"Today we celebrate the 'achievements' of the Apollo 11 'astronauts'," Obama said, rolling his eyes at several key junctures."At a time when America was reeling from the assassinations of Robert Kennedy and Martin Luther King, Jr., and embroiled in a bloody struggle in Southeast Asia, you 'bravery' made America 'believe in itself' again.

"I only regret that the great Walter Cronkite passed away before we could mark this 'anniversary'," the President continued. "The sincerity and solemnity with which he marked the 'event' were almost enough to convince America that men had actually walked on the moon."

Yesterday I saw two different military-related items on the Interwebs that made me shake me head. And no, neither of them was the moronic Army major who refuses to go to Afghanistan because he thinks Obama isn't a natural born citizen. Both of these stories could be blurbs in some Bizzarro World version of Reader Digest's "Humor in Uniform."

Item #1! This AP headline:


Are you mad, Pentagon?! We can't have soldiers in war zones smoking! It's dangerous! People could be killed!

For several years in my feckless post-collegiate youth, I had the same plans every Fourth of July. Two friends of mine shared an East Village apartment with roof access. So every Independence Day, we'd go up there, grill up some grub, drink some beers, and watch the fireworks. The festivities were occasionally enhanced by a live band, or a roving hitman with a squirt gun full of vodka. It was like something out of a Smirnoff Ice commercial, but with more body fat and fewer douchebags.

The fireworks were the highlight of the evening. Partly this was because the roof gave us an awesome vantage point to view them. But mostly, it was because of a weird, dorky tradition amongst my friends. I have no idea how this started, but before long it became just as much a part of the holiday as blowing off your pinky with an M-80.

Basically the game was, as each rocket's red glare burst in the air, at the exact moment when a normal person would say 'oooh', you had to yell out an obscure American history reference. Preferably, one with negative connotations. And you had to scream it out in the same kind of voice heard in that timeless patriotic anthem "America! Fuck Yeah!"

Obscure scandals of yesteryear were the most popular choices. Nothing can make a whole bunch of dorks laugh harder than suddenly screaming out TEAPOT DOME SCANDAL! or XYZ AFFAIR!

Presidents were okay, but not the really big ones, obviously. Thomas Jefferson? No. But Franklin Pierce? Solid!

And since the Fourth of July is about America, anything American was fair game. Whether it be YELLOW NUMBER 5! or RIP TAYLOR! or CASSINGLES! These were initially frowned upon, but permitted once we'd burned through more strictly-history-oriented references like GEORGE WALLACE! and THE BULL MOOSE PARTY!

So what would you yell out during the fireworks this Fourth of July? Let's hear some suggestions, fellow patriots.

I have no idea what to think about this AP article, which covers Daniel Hauser, a 13-year-old boy stricken with Hodgkin's lymphoma who refuses to get chemotherapy. In fact, he refuses to the point that he "vow[s] to resist chemotherapy by punching or kicking anyone who tries to force it on him".

This is a folk remedy that's been practiced for generations, known as Punching Therapy. Once you find out you're sick, you start punching things indiscriminately. It proves to the Hoary Disease Gods that you are very, very upset with them. Researchers have yet to determine its effectiveness, because the big pharmaceutical companies are afraid of alternative medicines! And also because anyone who approaches a practitioner gets clobbered.

At least this young man has some level-headed parents who will no doubt steer him towards a more reasonable...

"The kid says he's not sick and the mom says she'll treat it if it's an emergency," [his doctor] said of the Hauser case. "With cancer, if it's an emergency, it's too late."

"Why act one second before you have to?! I also like to park on train tracks and pull away just before I'm crushed by a freight caravan!"

But these parents aren't endangering their son's life for the fun of it. No, there's a totally reasonable explanation for this insane decision (and by reasonable, I mean just as stupid).

His family belongs to a Native American spiritual group that "advocates natural healing." Unfortunately, it's not one of those cool peyote cults that goes on mystical journeys into the farthest reaches of consciousness. Nope, this is one of those groups that wants you to become one with Mother Earth by dying as slowly and painfully as possible. Which just goes to show that even one of the most oppressed peoples on the planet can have colossally moronic religious views.

The family's attorney says, "The Hausers believe that an injection of chemotherapy into Danny amounts to an assault upon his body, and torture when it occurs over a long period of time."

Sure, chemo's no fun. But you know what else is assault and torture on your body? CANCER.

I'm not sure I buy the religious excuse. The article says Daniel had one chemo treatment, then stopped. If the family objects so strongly to Western medicine and is so committed to "alternative treatments", why'd they go to a doctor in the first place? If you keep kosher, you don't pop a slab of bacon in your mouth, chew it, then spit it out; you just don't touch bacon.

My suspicion: Daniel went in for a chemo treatment but didn't like it (not that anyone does) and refuses to go back. On top of this, everyone's freaked out about the dire reality of their situation. So the family's decided to hide under a pile of coats and hope that somehow everything works out okay.

My 2-year-old has had two ER visits already. They were for relatively trivial things, but in both cases I had to hold her down while doctors poked and prodded her. It's heartbreaking. I think I understand at least a glimmer of what this family going through. What I don't understand is why they'd stick their heads in the sand and figure that cancer (CANCER!) can be cured by echinacea and an Enya CD.

But if that's what they want to do, and it harms no one else outside of the family, then fine. Why bother getting the justice system involved, or putting doctors in arm's reach of a punch-happy teenager, if they all clearly have a death wish? That way, valuable tax dollars are saved, no doctors are hurt, and the family's happy because their wishes are respected.

Or they're all dead. You know, whichever.

I appreciate your candor, but you forgot one important thing: WHAT ARE YOU WARNING ME ABOUT?!

Jim Cramer's back again with Mad Money, comin' atcha via Webcam from an undisclosed Panera bread location. Here's my latest Buy Now! notice: the strawberry yogurt parfait. Delicious and reasonably priced!

I just gotta tell ya, folks, I stand by my statement that President Obama's policies have made him one of the worst wealth destroyers in American history. Sure, most of that wealth was imaginary, due to Ponzi schemes and backdoor deals and other assorted forms of skullduggery. That doesn't matter! The point is, we all used to be rich on paper, and now we're broke in real life!

What bothers me is that Obama doesn't seem to understand how the stock market works. He thinks it operates on actual value of companies and their products. It has nothing to do with anything real! If it did, the world financial markets would've collapsed decades ago!

Here's what happens on a typical Wall Street day. First, all of the traders bow before the altar of Gorlaqk the Dread and pay him obeisance. Then, they run around like maniacs for 7 hours. They don't know why. They don't know how. They have no idea what they're even doing! They just perform acts they are compelled to do, in an almost supernatural trance-state, and when it's all over they stare in disbelief at the carnage they've caused. It's like a Celtic battle frenzy, in suspenders!

Wall Street is not made up of individuals who act of their own free will! Wall Street is an empathic organism that feeds on the collective emotions of the hive mind! So when traders feel good, the Dow goes up! And when current events make them nervous or sad, the Dow goes way down. So I lay the Street's troubles on your doorstep, Mr. President!

Okay, the manager just told me to keep it down. Gotta keep quiet--I don't wanna get kicked outta here like did at that Cosi down the block.

Why did I tell you to gobble up shares of Wachovia? Because me and their CEO are best buds? No! It's because I know that Wall Street needs positive vibes to succeed! I believed with all my heart that stock wouldn't fail! I had to totally ignore every single warning sign that Wachovia would turf out to do that, but I did it, by god!

So why did they fail? Because you didn't believe hard enough. I did my part. Wachovia didn't fail, Bear Stearns didn't fail, AIG didn't fail, Citigroup didn't fail--you did. You should be ashamed of yourselves, America.

I called up the president. I said, listen, all you need to revive the Dow is to believe! Address the American people on TV and clap your hands three times if you believe in the Dow! Do you believe in the Dow? I KNOW YOU DO!!!

Can you believe that President Obama didn't say anything?! I mean, I'm not a 100 percent sure I actually talked to him. I don't have his private line, so I just dialed 1-800-2DAPREZ. Since nobody picked up, I just talked to the dialtone. But the fact that he wouldn't figure out I was trying to reach him--me, Jim Cramer!--makes me shudder for the economy's future.

I'm gonna get another bear claw, but when we return, I will attack my parents for being some of the worst Santa Claus- and Tooth Fairy-destroyers in history.

When in Jupiter, Florida, be sure to visit The Burt Reynolds and Friends Museum.

I can barely get past the fact that "and Friends" is in the name of this place. When you see "and Friends" in a title, it should refer to either a 70s variety show or a badly edited collection of old cartoons with awful linking material (like those "holiday specials" that Warner Bros. cranked out throughout the 80s).

I'm not going to say anything more about this establishment. Just click the link, browse the site, and marvel.

Once again, hat tip to Patrick of Oregon on the FOT Forum for pointing out this cultural gem.

My usual bus driver was born too late for vaudeville or silent film. That's too bad, because she would've hit it big in either genre. She has mastered the long, drawn-out visual gag, and she has just the right amount of sadism to make it really work.

The bus I take to work in the morning starts its route around the corner from where I live. So people line up at the stop, waiting for said bus to arrive. The bus pulls up, and the queue inevitably shuffles closer to the curb, even though we are nowhere close to leaving yet.

The bus driver s l o w l y hoists herself out of her seat, wraps herself up in a jacket and scarf, and then opens the door--so she can go into the Dunkin Donuts right by the bus stop, use the facilities, and order herself a coffee.

After completing these tasks--which take a bare minimum of five minutes--she returns to the bus. She opens the door just wide enough to let herself in and make it clear that no one else is getting in yet. Then she takes off her jacket. Then she takes off her scarf. Then she carefully folds them up and places them in the locker behind her seat.

And just when you think she's totally done, oh no, not even close. Because she proceeds to engage in a million little OCD- rituals before she even dares to start the bus. Adjusting her seat. Adjusting her rear view mirrors. Adjusting her seat again. Adjusting the side view mirrors. Adjusting the rear views again.

And then, just when you think she's ready, she notices something amiss. Like the strap of her shoulder bag caught in the locker door. So she gets up from her chair s l o w l y and fixes it, and sits back down just as s l o w l y, and goes through her whole Tourette's syndrome ritual all over again.

Then she starts up the bus. But she is so good at this routine, she knows how to start up the bus in the most fekachteh way possible. She turns the key, the bus sputters, the lights flicker, but the engine doesn't quite catch.

Not only is she able to do this every morning, she is able to do it and look just as perplexed and annoyed every morning. Like she's not doing it on purpose.

But after the second or third try at starting the bus, she finally gets it going. And we're ready to roll, right? Oh no, there are more adjustments on their way before finally, finally she opens the door and lets everyone in.

And--this is the kicker--as passengers walk in, she's totally stone-faced. Not the least bit of recognition of what has just transpired. Like she hasn't made you needlessly wait in 15 degree weather for no good reason.

It would be completely hysterical, if I was watching it on a silent movie screen in 1923 and not about to have my ears drop off my head from the cold.

I've been toying with the idea of a post on the ridiculousness of the Snuggie. And while I was mulling it over, this video was produced, which said it all much better than I could. And with pictures, too!


Hat tip to Patrick of Oregon, whose post on the Friends of Tom Forum alerted me to this mini masterpiece.

I want everyone involved with this article to be pitchforked to death. I'm not gonna recount it, just click on that link. If you can read three sentences and not be filled with hate, you're either Gandhi or dead.

Only the New York Times can not only think it's a good idea to greenlight an article about the trials and tribulations of millionaire bankers--you know, the greedy assholes who plunged our economy into the pooper to begin with--but also not have the slightest clue about how tone deaf and out-of-touch they look. That is some serious "let them eat cake"-level of cluelessness.

Ugh. Die, all of you. And make sure you do it slowly.

My place of employ provides free soda. I appreciate this, because I wasn't doing enough on my own to destroy my body.

Since I'm trying to shed a few lbs, I opt for a diet sodee pop with my lunch. But Diet Coke is a hot item in these parts, so I'm usually left with Diet Dr. Pepper as my only option. Which is fine, because the commercials are true--it really does taste like Dr. Pepper!*

* Which, by the way, has to be the most idiotic ad campaign ever. Wow, it tastes like the thing it says it tastes like! Praise Jesus! Next up, we're working on steak-flavored steak!

When I first began this job, the Dr. Pepper cans were all emblazoned with the characters from the last Indiana Jone movie. Actually, they must have only had a partial marketing deal, because every can I ever got had Mutt on it. Try to eat lunch with Shia LeBoeuf staring at you. Go ahead, I dare you.

But the Indiana Jones cans ran out, and were eventually replaced with a seemingly generic version. The only difference between this version and a totally unadorned can is a row of laces between the Dr. Pepper logo and the nutritional info.

I literally drank this soda for months before it occurred to me, "Wait, what the hell is this supposed to be?" I can only assume they're supposed to be football laces, except for two things:

1) They are the fattest, ugliest football laces you've ever seen, and
2) There is not a single mention of football anywhere else on the can.

No famous football player. Not even a silhouette of someone doing the Heisman. There's no football related contest or giveaway or anything. The only things football related at all are the ugly, ugly laces that look more like they belong on some morbidly obese dowager's corset.

My guess is, the Dr. Pepper people wanted to attach themselves in some way to The Exciting NFL Season. However, not only did they fail to land an NFL endorsement deal, but their creative department was filled with people who had never actually seen a football.

So they went to Modell's and bought one and brought it back to the office. By that point, a whole half hour had passed and no one was really hot for this idea anymore. Still, they spent like 15 bucks on that football, so they might as well put it to good use.

If you look closely, you can actually see everyone involved in this project losing interest in it.

Last month, The Wife and I had a nice dinner out at a Latin restaurant. The Wife got there before I did, and I met her at the bar while we waited for a table. Within 3 seconds of my arrival, the PA system played a rousing rendition of "Happy Birthday" sung English and Spanish.

Back story: I'm weird about foreign languages. I treat them like a strange amalgam of a puzzle to be solved and a joke in search of a punchline. Why do I react this way? No idea. I know it's dumb--just throwin' it out there.

So this song comes on, and I think it's hilarious. At any second, it sounds like it's gonna break out and go on an extended 9 minute Cuban jazz jam. The boys are just gonna lay out. Five minute trombone solo, timbale cadenzas, the works. (Wanna hear it? Click here.)

The Wife sighs. "I've heard this song four times already." Four times? Really. How long has she been here? "About fifteen minutes."

That didn't sound possible to me. Then the evening progressed, and I became a believer. Because we heard this song five more times before our table was ready, which only took 20-25 minutes or so.

And over the course of our meal--which could not have lasted more than an hour--I heard this song at least 20 times. Over that time, the song went from being hilarious to grating to annoying to hilarious again--five or six times.

The dining room was big, but it wasn't that big. It held a hundred people, more or less. Let's be generous and say they packed 150 people in this room. And let's also assume that not everybody had their birthday that exact evening. Let's give a window of a week.

Even with all of these caveats added onto my experience, there is simply no way that I was in the presence of that many people celebrating their birthday. Statistically, it's impossible.

And no, I don't know what the statistical probability of such an event is. But even in a room full of people, what are the odds that 10 to 20 percent of them were born within the week?

The first person to figure this out wins absolutely nothing.

Yesterday I received a note from the IRS, telling me I underpaid my 2006 tax return. The damage comes to less than 60 bucks. So of course I will pay it, because I have no desire to get audited or lose any hope of ever owning anything of value.

But here's the thing: A 2006 return is for the 2005 calendar year. That's 4 years ago now. I have no effing clue what I did that year. I mean, I do, but I couldn't prove it. I might have receipts and documents somewhere, but I wouldn't count on it. At least, I wouldn't count on having everything I need. I probably have my W2's, but anything else is probably tucked away in some envelope shoved at the bottom of a milk crate, next to old seven-inches.

So it occurs to me that this is actually a fradulent revenue-raising tactic for the federal government. You take people who make a certain amount of money. You pick a year that's long ago enough to be hazy in people's memories, but not so long ago that it's ridiculous. Then, you pick an amount of money that they "owe" that won't kill anyone.

Say you get eight digits of Americans to just write a check. That ain't chump change.

What if you fight it? Then you get summoned to your local IRS office. They seat you in a dimly lit room with one long desk and two seats. They make you sit there for a while and sweat it out. Then some officious looking person enters, sits across from you, and slides a manila envelope your way. You open it up and discover 8-by-10 glossies of yourself doing something awful.

YOU: Where'd you get these?
IRS GUY: That's not important. What is important is for you to pay that fine.
YOU: Yeah, but what I'm doing here...technically, it's not illegal.
IRS GUY: No, but I'd bet you still don't want those pictures posted all over the Internet.
YOU: *sigh* Fine, I'll get my checkbook.

We're through the looking glass here, people...

Just heard (thanks to eagle-eyed reader TheWhiteBoomBoom) that the kid from Jersey named Adolf Hitler has been taken from his parents. Contain your shock if you can, please.

Most people, I'm sure, are happy to hear this. Me, I just hope his home situation was actually abusive or unsafe enough to warrant this move, because I think kids should only be put into foster care under extreme circumstances. I fear that the town Adolf lives in was embarrassed by the attention and pressured into doing something, even if his parents provided him a reasonable home.

Maybe reasonable isn't the right word. How about adequate? Tolerable? Sufficient in all respects except for constant stream of hatred issuing from dad's mouth?

My point is, yeah, I yelled bout this case when it popped up like everyone else. But on further reflection, I just hope the relocation was necessary. Being racist doesn't necessarily make you an unfit parent. If it did, then at least half of the kids I grew up with should have been taken away by Child Protective Services.

Then again, simply naming your kid Adolf Hitler is a form of abuse. That's a scar that ain't gonna heal.

I got a fresh piece of hate mail yesterday, something I haven't received in quite a while. When you write for the web as much as I do, it's like yelling in a vaccuum. It's hard to gauge if your words have any impact at all. So it's nice to know that someone read your work and was touched by it, even if the work touched them in such a way that they want you dead. 

The hate mail had nothing to do with Scratchbomb, but a piece I wrote at the now sadly defunct Freezerbox.com, a site I contributed to for several years. The emailer didn't specify the source of his/her ire, but they were very clear about what they wanted me to do myself, or have done to me.

I'm not going to reproduce the hate mail here--not because it's filthy, but because I'd rather not give the writer's words any more fame than they deserve. The gist of the message was:

1) I am on drugs because I disagree with this person politically, and also because, unlike them, I peppered my work with proper spelling and fancy punctuation.
2) They hope America gets taken over by Muslim terorrists so I'll get what I deserve. It's funny--I never hear liberal commie types like myself wish that the US would succumb to foreign aggressors, but AMERICA: FUCK YEAH! types say this all the time. That would totally be worth it--the beacon of Western democracy should fall to teach me a valuable lesson.
3) I should go back where I came from. I don't know where they thought I came from; Jihadist Russian Homo-ville, I guess.

I was mildly upset at first. I thought, Wait, I'm such a wonderful person! Who could possibly hate me? But hey, I'm not exactly innocent when it comes to writing really angry stuff online. Plus, in thinking these things, I've put more thought into the hate mail than the sender had.

In the old days, if you decided you hated someone, you'd have to type or write a letter, go down the post office, and spend money on a stamp before you could possibly express that hatred to them. Most people didn't bother, because they knew some secretary would read this letter and throw it out. And because taking all this time out of their busy day interfered with their elaborate masturbation rituals.

So in volume, I'm sure there was far, far less hate mail in those days than there are angry emails/comments today. But the instataneous nature of the Intertubes is a good thing on this front. Because if someone reads a post that pisses them off, they can fire off a snotty email or comment, and that's pretty much the end of it.

Read the comment sections of any site--political or not--and you will see some of the angriest, hate filled language ever written this side of the Aryan Nation. And yet, as far as I know, no blogger has ever been murdered a la Eric Bogosian in Talk Radio. 

Way back when, people were less inclined to publicly declare their hatred. But then all that animus built up over time until they started picking off people from clock towers. So I like to think of the Internet as a safety valve for the Crazy Steam that builds up in some people's brains. They let it off, and then they're close to normal for another few days.

Hey, I've been there. I know that if I don't post here often enough, I start getting pains in my head! But then I vent my frustrations and the neighbor's dog stops talking to me for a while!

I wouldn't call myself claustrophobic per se. But I do have an intense dislike of confined spaces, a trait I share with pretty much every animal on the planet. So naturally, I've chosen to live in New York City, which is a series of confined spaces piled on top of one another.

For reasons I can't quite place right now, I decided to go to a different deli than usual to get my coffee and breakfast. And for reasons that are even harder to determine, I went to the deli that once served me the worst sandwich ever made. So I should have expected to be a little disoriented and confused. What I didn't count on was starring in a mini-French Connection subway platform scene. (I played Popeye Doyle in this version.)

Like most NY delis, this one doesn't have a lot of room to spare for coffee preparation. It needs the space for 1700 different kinds of energy shots and wasabi peas. Even when judged by NY standards, however, this deli is aggressive in its waste of space. You know how there are design consultants who can help you maximize your space in a crowded urban environment? This deli went with these consultants' bizzarro counterparts. "This guy comes highly recommended--he spiffed up the Collyer Brothers' place!"

I was stuck at a light this morning at the corner of Flushing and Bedford, right behind a minivan of generic American make. The minivan's rear windshield was emblazoned with two stickers, right at the top of the glass, centered horizontally. They were both of roughly equal size and, based on their positioning, given roughly equal prominence by their owner.

To the left: Jesus Christ wearing a crown of thorns, rendered in silver and black

To the right: Faded Mickey Mouse, one of his arms partially torn.

He's probably too nice to say it, but I think Jesus would be a little upset by that. And on his birthday, too!

He might also be a little upset by the windows I saw earlier, near the intersection of Flushing and Knickerbocker. The first floor apartment had two windows with messages written in that snowy tinsley stuff whose name I can't recall.

Left window: MERRY XMAS!

Right window: HAIL SATAN!

A lot of us get stressed out during the holidays, especially when we're shopping for our families. That stress causes us to do non-Christmas-y things like act rude or discourteous to complete strangers while at the store. Or worse.

You decided that you would maintain the holiday spirit the only way you know how: by going to Toys R Us high as a kite. That takes no small amount of courage. No, wait, courage isn't the word I'm looking for. What is it? Oh yes: immaturity. Still, bravo!

I also applaud you for making sure no one could mistake you for a sober person. Nope, when you packed that bowl before leaving the house, you wanted strangers to spot your glazed, heavy-lidded Stoner Stare from 50 yards away. You also, apparently, wanted the air around you to have the acrid stench of Willie Nelson's rec room carpet.

I should probably congratulate you just for remembering that it's Christmas. You look like the kind of guy who forgets to to do things because they're just too "heavy". Like showing up for work on time, or paying the rent.

And I don't envy what you'll tell your kids when they open their gifts and they ask you about that funny smell. Will say that reek is Santa's Magic Christmas Dust? Or will you go smoke up again because you can't handle your children giving you a big plastic hassle?

Happy Holidays, Stoned Man. I hope Santa Claus brings you that 12-foot dragon-covered bong you want. And if you're really lucky, maybe he'll leave behind some handy stocking stuffers. Like dignity, and self-respect.

Today I ate the worst sandwich ever made. I am sure of it.

Sure, Turkish prison food is probably worse, if Midnight Express is any indication. I bet there's some street food in Mumbai or Caracas that'll make you doubt the existence of God. In a purely qualitatively way, this sandwich was not worse than these things, or any other filthy comparison you could conjure up.

This was the worst sandwich ever made in the way that Plan 9 from Outer Space and Manos: The Hands of Fate are the worst movies ever made. There are worse movies, but their failure is not compelling. Plan 9 and Manos fail in such grotesquely unique ways that you can't help but watch the whole cinematic train wreck.

Ever head home really late after drinking too much, but by the time you get home you're starting to sober up? So you decide wolf down some food before you go to bed so you won't have too bad of a hangover the next morning? And while you're waiting for a Hot Pocket to heat up in the microwave, you turn on HBO and they're showing The Wicker Man? And you sit down and watch it, and you find out it's even more insane in non-You Tube form? So you stay up way, way too late, knowing you're going to totally feel like shit at work the next day, because you just have to see how Nicolas Cage is gonna up the retard quotient in scene after scene?

If so, you will understand me when I say that this sandwich was so monstrously awful that I had to keep eating it.

Years ago, there was an article in the Onion entitled, "Romantic-Comedy Behavior Gets Real-Life Man Arrested". As with most late-90s Onion material, it was letter-perfect in its execution. Movies routinely depict characters doing things that would get an actual person some serious jail time. Or at the very least, would not be considered brave or charming, but just downright creepy.

The Onion article was the first thing I thought of when I read this story in The New York Times. The "plot" reads like a bad 80s action movie starring Patrick Swayze (I realize this sentence is redundant). Except instead of becoming the most famous bouncer in America, the protagonist of this story gets a lot of people thrown in jail, ruins a whole bunch of reputations, and inspires millions of dollars in lawsuits.

A federal agent calling himself Sergeant Bill showed up in a small town in Missouri, an area plagued by a methamphetamine problem (in your SAT drug analogies, meth : rural America :: crack : ghetto). Sergeant Bill vowed to clean up this one-horse town, and the town, which had applied for federal law enforcement grants, was grateful for his help. With the help of local police, he used strongarm tactics to put the dealers out of business (this is where you'd put the montage of bad guys getting busted). Peace and quiet returned to this sleepy village.

Except a few months into his crusade, it turned out that the "federal agent" was nothing of the sort. Sergeant Bill had deceived local police and politicians through a labyrinthine series of ruses, aided by some collaboration and childlike levels of gullibility. Sergeant Bill had no federal connections whatsoever. He wasn't even being paid by anyone. He just showed up in the town to smash some drug dealers' skulls, and the entranced local officials followed him merrily as if he were the Pied Piper of Ass Kicking.

Hello, and happy new year to all. As will become abundantly clear, the post below was written before Xmas. I never got a chance to post it, so now here it is in all its outdated glory. Enjoy, and I will have more timely stuff posted very very soon.

The Baby has made a few forays into Outer Space (= Not The Living Room) in her first few weeks on planet earth, but most of these trips have been to relatives' houses. Friendly territory, where she gets poked and prodded and photographed until her psychological defense mechanisms kick in and render her catatonic. So we thought it might be a good idea to toughen the girl up, get her out of the house and acquainted with the evil world that will one day crush her fragile spirit once she's sufficiently cognizant to realize its true depths. Fun!

My original plan was to teach her some survival skills. We would drive out to the Meadowlands and drop her off in a tied-up sack with a map and some C-rations, to see if she could find her way home. But The Wife suggested that this might be seen as child abuse.

So we did something more acceptable to society but no less cruel--we took her to the mall. We had Xmas shopping to do, and there's only so many people you can buy hilariously ironic eBay gifts for. "Here, Uncle Phil, have this Lucky Strike ad clipped out of 1954 issue of Collier's. It's funny 'cuz it's old!"

I'm sorry Florida, I can't front no more. I straight up hate you. I feel like I've been to enough of you, over a sufficiently long period of time, to be able to make that statement. Granted, I haven't been to Miami, which I imagine has its own thing going on--a random person said to The Wife the other day, "I wasn't born in America, I was born in Miami." But me and Florida ain't grabbing a beer together any time soon.

I had to go down to Boca Raton for bidness, which in itself was okay. The folks I dealt with were extremely nice, the working environment was pleasant, no complaints there. And even though I'm not a warm climate person, around this time of year I can appreciate the allure of 80-degree weather.

But here's the thing: Florida has zero local culture of its own. None. Everything is a strip mall, everything is a chain store, everyone drives on horribly cluttered highways to get to and from work. Everyone lives in a pseudo-Caribbean-looking Miami Vice-colored faux terracotta condo. Everyone shops in places that look the same. It's Everywhere, USA, except for palm trees, hurricanes, and highway snipers.