Posted on

Do I Sound More Suave in French?

Like I wrote in the post below, I was interviewed by the Swiss paper Le Temps about the whole bowdlerization-of-Huck-Finn dust-up going on. The reporter didn’t send me the PDF like she promised, so I went on the website this morning and found I’d said this:

Joint aux Etats-Unis, James Finn Garner, auteur du grinçant Politiquement correct: contes d’autrefois pour lecteurs d’aujourd’hui (traduit chez Grasset, 1995), se réjouit que la décision de la maison d’édition ait provoqué une telle polémique. «Il y a un vrai débat. Les gens en ont marre du politiquement correct. Et tout colorer en rose ne change pas le fait que l’Amérique reste un pays disloqué, inégal, encore très raciste.»

Hope I come off good. I think she’s quoting my most lurid comment, like that’s surprising or something. Here’s what Babelfish says I said:

Joint with the United States, Fine James Garner, author of squeaking Politically correct: tales of formerly for readers of today (translated at Grasset, 1995), is delighted that the decision of the publisher caused such a polemic. “There is a true debate. People have some enough of politically correct. And all to colour pink does not change yet the fact that America remains a dislocated country, unequal, very racist.”

Didn’t know my book was “squeaking”, but I’ll take it as a compliment.

Posted on

Groovy Ghosts of Christmases Past

Some people’s Christmas memories smell like gingerbread, or pine trees, or egg nog.

Mine smells like English Leather cologne.

All my early childhood Christmases have melted into a blur. I can remember some gifts, and the decorations in the house (some of which I’ve inherited), but if we didn’t have photographs of those years, my memory vault would be even more empty than it is now. I remember sledding and tobogganing during the break, and trying to skate and giving up because no one would teach me and my knees couldn’t take the punishment, and hot chocolate in the warming house by the skating rink. I remember too when I was 4 or 5 and I pulled the whole tree down on top of myself. I couldn’t move, pinned not only by the nominal weight of the tree but also by the horror of my mistake and the guilt of somehow defiling our whole Christmas by my carelessness. The needles pricked, too.

Real strong memories of the Christmas SEASON, however, only begin for me around 1970. I would be 10 years old then, and whatever was going on in childhood was being replaced by hints of what teenage and adult life would bring. I had two older brothers, and watching them operate from a distance (which was the only way they’d let me) offered tantalizing hints of what was to come.

I remember shopping for my eldest brother, who would be 15 at this time. He wanted a copy of the LP “Steppenwolf 7”. It had a VERY psychedelic cover, with skulls and seascapes and the band acting tough. I could’ve bought it at Dearborn Music, a steady old store that’s still running, but instead I ventured to The Happy Apple, the “head shop” that had opened in town. Inside was run-of-the-mill hippie stuff: black light posters, clothes, candles, those brass bells on a cord that everyone was selling for some reason. They might have been selling something more illicit, but I was too young to know. All I know is, I felt pretty damn cool to be walking down our main shopping drag with the bag from The Happy Apple, with its drippy letters and fat, happy, purple, and obviously stoned apple mascot.

My next eldest brother would’ve been in junior high around that time, so he was concerned about hygiene and smelling good for the ladies. This is where the smell of English Leather comes in. I remember buying him a big bottle of the stuff, in a cedar box. There must have been six or seven ounces of the concoction, enough to supply a whole Polish disco. He might have never used it, but the smell of it permeated our dresser for years. besides, it was enough to have the feeling that I had nudged him a little along maturity by buying it for him (it was probably my failsafe present for him for years, regardless of whether he ever opened the bottle.)

Many of the other gifts of that time also had a distinct counter-culture vibe to them. Designs were getting bolder, sleeker. The Panasonic Ball radio was pretty “boss”, and lasted a surprisingly long time. Puzzles like SOMA were much cooler than the board games we used to get. Even the jigsaw puzzles in our stockings were getting cooler, in round shape with fantastical characters on them like giant Mer-men. We received macracmé belts and string art kits, because we were a pretty crafty family.

(Evidence of 1960s Christmas crafty: angel figurines made from turning down the pages of Readers Digest and spray-painting the books to make cone-shaped stand-alone items. Evidence of 1970s Christmas craft: Candles, candles, candles!)

And late at night, when everyone was asleep, I got to stay up late and watch “The Tonight Show”. It seemed like a swinging time back then. The men, including Johnny, were wearing sideburns and flashy jackets. The women were dressed up as if they were headed to a party, and everyone smoked and told double entendres that even my juvenile imagination thought were hilarious and naughty. (A year or two later, I found my first “Holiday” issue of Playboy, and enjoyed a full mental assault on what I thought grown-up Christmases would eventually be like: lascivious office parties, jazz concerts, slick cocktails, and naked women playing pool in my wood-paneled study.)

Innocence at Christmas? Sorry, it never grabbed my attention.

Posted on

We Few, We Buffoonish Few

So now the list of candidates for the mayor of Chicago has come down to five candidates. A measly five candidates, in every sense of the word. At least, that was the number that filed their petitions with the city clerk today.

When Da Mare announced he was retiring next year, hordes of local politicians began to jockey for position like the hopefuls who would pull the sword from the stone. Unknown aldermen held press conferences, state senators began to send out gossip tidbits about forming exploratory committees, etc. It looked like it was going to be a humorous campaign with more hyperbole than you could shake a Chicago Spire at.

But aspirants quickly began to fall away in October, when people realized they would be running against Rahm Emanuel and his money, and maybe when they realized that the city is pretty much broke right now. It was like Henny Penny in reverse, with everyone gung ho at the start but falling away when they realized how much work was involved and how slim their personal chances were.

So we’re left with Rahm Emanuel, Carol Mosely Braun (sheeesh), Gery Chico (probably Daley’s pick), Miguel Del Valle and US Rep. Danny Davis (he’s seemingly everywhere–does he hold more than one office?). They’re all politicians who know how to bloviate and hurl accusations and innuendo, but there are no outsized characters in the group except Emanuel. State Sen James Meeks is expected to file his petitions before the deadline next week.

Which is all too bad for me and my ilk. For a couple weeks I was trying to figure out how I could lampoon this process somehow, especially with some short dramatic episodes on the radio. I stirred and stirred the ingredients but nothing seemed to gel in my mind. Back in the 80s, Aaron Freeman hit a home run with his “Council Wars” episodes about the fights between Harold Washington and various retrograde aldermen who were acting like big men to oppose him. What would work this time? King Arthur? The Godfather? SpongeBob? Sniffing around the idea of a “Cannonball Run” take-off sounded okay, but who can remember anything distinctive about that piece of slop? (It may have been the presence of Sheriff Tom Dart as a possible candidate that made me salivate for the chance to bring in some Southern law enforcement burlesques, but now we’ll never know, since Dart declined to run in order to spend time with his family. And his current job, which has nothing but upsides for him.)

And now, as the initial thrill fades and the field thins out, we’re left with the almost-certain election of Emanuel to the mayor’s office. It will be loud and profane, but I don’t know if it will lend itself well to ridicule and parody.

Unless after the election, some of the aldermen grow a pair and stand up a little bit against the new mayor.

Yeah, like that’s going to happen.

For more, better, and nastier observations about what’s going on in Chicago politically, check out Driftglass. It’s hilarious.

Posted on

Tea Partiers Come Closer to Catching the Car They’re Barking After

From what I gather on some of the political websites, there’s been some kind of tectonic shift in American politics, now that some “Tea Party” candidates have ousted Republican favorites in some Senate and House Primaries. Katie, bar the door, and all that….

I haven’t paid any attention to the Tea Party movement for more than a year. At one time, they seemed like a genuine force to be reckoned with. But as certain “leaders” have emerged, they strike me as little more than telegenic nihilists. Not informed about how government operates, not interested that there can be more than one side to an argument, not particularly honest with the people whose emotions they have stoked and manipulated. They argue that having no government would almost be better than having the government we have now. (If you really think that having no government would create some kind of Rousseau-ian paradise, go visit places with failed governments like Yemen or Sudan, then come back and report.)

Hey, they wanna “throw da bums out”, that’s fine. That’s why we have the system.

But what kind of makes me sick is the way this is treated in the media, like these people are like Ethan Allen’s Green Mountain Boys, swooping down at this particular time in history to reclaim this country. That’s the rhetoric of the movement, but now the trope is worming its way into news coverage about it.

This morning on NPR’s “Morning Edition” (which I was only half listening to), the reporter described the Tea Party movement as a robust threat to the Republican establishment. It was done in such an awestruck and admiring manner, that I had to think to myself:

“Would a serious movement from the left, challenging Democratic incumbents, have received such a glowing report? Or would a “Coffee Party” (or whatever) be treated as a ragtag bunch of crazies that want power and won’t know what to do with it when they get it?”

I think you know the answer. Which all goes back to the way the supposedly liberal elements of the media establishment are still an establishment, and treat conservative power with way more deference and analysis than it deserves. Conservative power is about one thing only: Power. Not good governance, not justice, not equality, not the future of the country. Just power, and holding onto it.

I’m not saying the Democrats can be trusted to act in ways that advance those ideals, or that they don’t crave power like a junkie. It’s just that I get tired of the media giving these Tea Party dress-up whores so much credit, and their government suitors any credibility. IT often looks like the Tea Partiers have stolen the keys to the family van, and are sitting up in a tree taunting the Republican officeholders, and the officeholders are making lots of cooing noises and waving candy hoping to get the keys back. Billionaires are funding the Tea Party movement and pulling the strings behind the candidates, and any doofuses in tri-corner hats who think that these backers have the fate of the average citizen in mind deserves the paddling he’s going to get.

It’s only going to get interesting again when some of these “reformers” get elected to office. But then, that’s me. I’m a cynic, but not a nihilist.

Posted on

Tranformational Deaths?

A few weeks ago, we were shocked by the news that a good friend at church had woken in bed with difficulty breathing and died early on a Saturday morning. Steve was only 49, actually seven weeks younger than me. He was very active and athletic, and had a lovely wife and a teenage daughter. He was so active in in our large church that you could’ve sworn he was the guy running things.

My jaw doesn’t drop for much. But I was gobsmacked by this news.

There were many reasons why the lines at the funeral home were so long, and why 700 people (my guess) were at his funeral. I won’t list them, except to say he had great good humor, a deep sincere concern for others, the ability to motivate you to do better than you already were, and a knack for never making disagreements personal or last longer than the issue. (He worked at the Chicago Board of Trade, and we were all glad that his business partner spoke at the service, to give us SOME idea of how a humble, caring guy like Steve could do well in a selfish, cutthroat place like that.) He was just one of the best guys I knew.

After the funeral, a rather dramatic friend of ours intoned repeatedly that this was a “transformative event” for her. This gave her so much perspective on our life and mortality that she was going to make immediate changes and savor every last drop of every day’s blessing. Steve’s death was a shock to everyone, as I said, and his example was a good one to follow. But I suspect as we head into our fifties, unhappily more friends will be dying, and our habits and attitudes will remain largely unchanged.

Habits. Outlook. Generosity. Time-management. Enthusiasm. None of these transform as quickly and with such irreversibility as a sudden death. It’s flippant to think that one will easily lead to any of the others.

A few years ago, the artist Ed Paschke died of a heart attack on Thanksgiving Day at the age of 65. I knew Ed a little, after spending a couple hours interviewing him for a magazine article. He was an energetic, enthusiastic, down-to-earth guy, in love with pop culture and high art and the chance to make the art he wanted to. I remember him vividly saying how excited he was to enter to his studio every morning and “open his paint box and mess around.” This was in spite of a complicated private life that included a terminally ill wife.

After Ed’s funeral on the campus of Northwestern University, I vowed to remember Ed’s joy at getting to “open his paint box” every morning. I wanted to apply it to my own creative work. For me, unfortunately, getting started on a project is terrifying. I’d rather do most anything than settle down and “open my word box”. The only thing I’d like to do LESS than that is give up on my writing and get a regular job. (Why do most writers agonize so much over creating their work? Why can’t we take a lesson from the other arts and try to enjoy our craft?) I still have postcards of Ed’s marvelous paintings thumbtacked up around my office, reminders that I knew one of the greatest American postwar painters and that I have something to learn from him.

I have something to learn from my friend Steve’s death, too. But will these events –CAN they — be transformational? My steamship’s been chugging along for many years, and making turns takes a long time. I’d LIKE to make changes for the better. I’m very grateful to have known Steve and Ed, and appreciate the lessons that their lives might contain. But am I really going to change from this? Is there much hope that a generally crabby, reluctant, unprolific egotist like me can improve from knowing better men? I keep wanting to experience an earthquake, a lightning bolt, a Scrooge-like epiphany that will crack my carapace and power me through the next three decades of my life.

But Scrooge was fiction, and transformations like that reek of madness. Real change takes time, and great effort, and an informed sympathy about what people are really able to do, all the while dodging the easy cop-outs of “I’m only human” and fatalistic shrugs of “Eh, whaddya gonna do?”

Maybe I should be thankful at least that the lessons have wormed their way into my consciousness somehow. I’ve been around a lot of good examples in my life. Steve, Ed, my father and brothers, my father-in-law, my English Lit teacher in high school, my counselor in college. Lessons can be gleaned from all of them. The trick, as it is throughout all our lives as adults, is to gain an honest idea of where it is you want to go. Short of an epiphany on THAT, real internal change is hard work.

Posted on

“Parade’s” Paycheck Parade

This is hardly earth-shattering news, and not very timely besides, but last week Parade Magazine published its annual celebration of pecuniary envy, “What People Earn”. This gives us, amid all the ads for weight loss systems and USMC-themed Hummel-like figurines, the chance to line up what Tiger Woods makes with the take-home of a janitor in Billings, Mt., and a circuit court judge in Kalamazoo.

Now, I was always taught that it was rude to ask people what they earn. In some circles (like among Europeans), it’s actually bad form to try to maintain a conversation by talking about something as boring as a job–a person should have (or try to cultivate) better conversational skills using more intriguing methods of interpersonal exchange. So I guess instead of dissing Parade for being nosy, boring, and banal, I should thank it for asking the questions people want to know.

Then again, screw it. I’ll thank them when Walter Scott answers the reader question: “What does Courtney Cox think of man’s basic nature? Is there really an objective division between good and evil, or are our souls the active battleground of good and evil, as the Manichaeists believe?”

The results of Parade‘s crack reporters’ research shows that, by gosh, just as you might think, there’s a huge range of dollar amounts for everyone listed. Tiger Woods, $100 million. A pastor in Wichita, $5,800. US Army dog handler, $30K. The 25-year-old CEO of Facebook, $3 billion.

Sure, I believe that guy’s worth $3 billion. Until the next big computer fad comes out, and he’s left to scrounge nickels like the guys from Napster, MySpace, and Netscape.

Seeing Parade in the Sunday paper always makes my skin crawl (True headline from this week’s online edition: “Lisa Kudrow Says It’s Important to Keep History Alive!”). But this paycheck issue is always extra-creepy, for a number of reasons:

* It’s plain nauseating to think that Glenn Beck made $23 million last year (which is a low guess anyway, since Forbes estimates it was closer to $32 mil.), because that’s just not a world I want to live in. Ditto Jay Leno bringing in $32 mil.

* There is a forced camaraderie and false connection implied by lining up everyone’s picture on an equal grid, so that Johnny Depp and a nursing home worker look like fellow students in a high school yearbook. Sorry, Johnny Depp seems like a likeable down-to-earth megastar, but he lives on a different planet. And on that planet, he owns four houses and lives with a French model. Nothing against Seymour, Tenn., but Johnny Depp is not popping in for a BBQ anytime soon, no matter how friendly the people seem.

* The strained equivalences are reinforced by use of the first person plural throughout the article. “How We’re Making It Work.” As best as we can, thanks, though the cost of living is a lot different in South Dakota than in suburban Maryland, and people like Kanye West are making it work because they can afford lots of handlers and lawyers to keep them out of trouble when they get drunk and abuse people.

* It forces me to consider scenarios in which I’m working in a menial job in a flyspeck town. Fate may be capricious, of course, and it’s a longshot that it would happen, but what if an old “Twilight Zone” storyline came true, and you woke up one morning with your body switched with a complete stranger’s? And why should you have people across America learn that you make crap wages?

* It hurts my head to imagine the reality behind some of the people’s occupations and stated income. A modern dancer in Murray, Utah, earning $32,000? There’s a modern dancer in Murray, Utah? And she makes a living wage? Weird, baby.

* And I hate it because it’s so transparently shoddy, for all the above reasons, and so illuminates the problem of ranking articles like this, whether published by Forbes or Inc. or Jack & Jill. While trying to pass as important sociologically and even anthropologically, they are always merely one editor’s idea of an interesting topic, fleshed out under deadline with questionable methods. How did Parade find the retail salesperson in Kreamer, Pa., and why did she tell them she only made $8200 last year? And what conclusions can be made from a call that certainly was made randomly? And I hate myself for getting sucked into articles like this, too.

And then there’s a long, long argument to be made about whether a person’s income is in any way reflective of the worth they add to society, and the growing chasm between the wealth of the richest and the poorest in America, but those are for another time. Most of the people in the article aren’t too concerned that the average CEO makes 300 times what his average worker makes. They’re probably just happy to have their pictures in the paper.

And heavens, that’s enough time spent on THAT magazine. Sorry for wasting your time on it.

Posted on

Tigers Opening Day 2010

I’d been battling allergies for a couple of weeks and was completely drained of energy. On the night before, I played host to a book signing and stayed out til midnight with the literary types singing karaoke at a lesbian bar.

So, what was the best thing to do to stay healthy? Of course! Wake up at 5 AM and drive to Detroit for the Tigers Home Opener!

I’ve now been to more Opening Days at Comerica Park than I ever did at Tiger Stadium. I wish that weren’t the case, but I never was into skipping school, and generally had a good excuse not to go during college years. Then I moved to Chicago and tried to pretend I didn’t care. Now, it’s too late for the Stadium, which was finally and completely knocked down last summer. But Old Comiskey’s gone too, and Yankee Stadium. Those fights are done, time to get on with living.

It was an overcast day, temperature at game time was 38. But my friend Gary sold me one of his very sweet upper deck seats that looked right up the first base line.

The wind was minimal, the company was good, and the Tigers beat the Indians 5-3. (One thing I wish they’d do is STOP singing “God Bless America” during the seventh inning stretch. Come on, guys, just quit it. It’s depressing and pompous and no one connects it with 9/11 anymore.)

Ernie Harwell wasn’t there, for the first time since 1960 (minus his lost year when former GM Bo Schembechler fired him). Ernie is suffering from pancreatic cancer, and probably won’t make it to see Opening Day 2011. Once again, a reminder that time marches on.

It was a crazy scene in the streets after the game. I haven’t seen so many people completely shitfaced in a long, long time. Not just 20-yr-olds, but people in their 40s and 50s, who oughta know their limits by now. They were being dragged around by their friends like it was “Weekend at Bernie’s” time, literally vomiting and pissing their pants. Someone in our group speculated that it might show the economy is doing better, which would put people in a better mood. Then again, he thought it might show the economy is in worse shape, and people are cutting loose in frustration. I don’t know which is true, but watching some idiot take a swing at a cop in full daylight was more than a little pathetic. Every big public event doesn’t HAVE to turn into Mardi Gras, does it?

After the game and a little beer reception, a bunch of us headed to the Polish Village Cafe on Yemans, a terrific place in Hamtramck. (I also now know more Polish restaurants in Detroit than I do in Chicago–sad but true! I still intend to drag my kids out to one soon, just to tick off that box.)

Then we grabbed a couple beers at Skipper’s Hamtown Bar on Conant, which is run by a truly great innkeeper and has a fridge stocked with all things good, including Bell’s Two-Hearted Ale, possibly my favorite malt beverage. Skipper is an old neighborhood guy who knows all the politicians and went to school with half of them. It’s a warm, friendly place full of crazy Detroit people. Anyone who doubts that the city will survive should hang out there for a night and listen to the patrons and their love of the Motor City.

One of my favorite reasons for going to Detroit is crashing at the house of my friends Gary and Vicki. They live in Indian Village, in a beautiful house designed by a young Albert Kahn, the famed industrial architect. Indian Village is a beautiful neighborhood that reeks of the class and money that Detroit enjoyed in the first quarter of the last century. (Surrounding it is some pretty rough terrain, let alone wasteland, but enough has been written about that lately.) It is truly striking to see the remnants of that era and realize how much money the car makers were bringing to the city then. Now, you can buy a 5000 sq ft house in Indian Village for the low six figures. Or even less, although many speculators swooped in during the housing collapse.

When I was young, my dad kept a boat on the Detroit River, and occasionally we visited people’s houses in elegant, old-school neighborhoods like Indian Village and Grayhaven, which had a canal and boathouses for each of the properties. Hanging around near Belle Isle brings back those memories. Just looking down Gary’s street, with the spring trees barely stopping the sunshine, you can see the Detroit River rushing by, same as always. We ate breakfast Saturday morning at a pancake breakfast at the Jefferson Avenue Presbyterian Church, a gorgeous old place with friendly people.

Visiting Detroit almost always brings back large waves of nostalgic feelings and memories. This year, it didn’t. Maybe I was too tired. Maybe the final demolition of Tiger Stadium somehow stuck one last nail in that coffin. I’ve been doing a lot of reading about what the future may hold for Detroit, how Mayor Bing is hoping to relocate people away from blighted areas so the city provide services to a dispersed and shrinking population, how “decay porn” is attracting the notice of all the news organizations around the world. Figuring out where the place will end up is a confusing business.

It’s much easier just to weigh the Tigers chances for the World Series, now that they’ve lost Granderson, Polanco and Rodney.

Posted on

Thanks, Olympics, for giving me a reason to sit on the couch all week

Okay, I think I’ve reached it. I’ve finally had my fill of the Winter Olympics.

I haven’t been sitting in front of the TV EVERY evening for these two weeks. We had theater tickets last night, for example, and I’ve also been around to help with homework (pretty bad form to blow the kids off so I can watch ice dancing) and gave a speech in Ann Arbor last Saturday. But other than that, with the TIVO in hand, I’ve been glued to the set. Why?

It helps that the Olympics are in Canada, undoubtedly my favorite country I don’t live in. Seeing all those maple leafs everywhere warms my heart, and I’ll cheer for a Canadian in just about every winter sport except short track speed skating. I feel bad that the national movement to “Own The Podium” has resulted in Canada landing in fourth in the medal total, but really, that whole quest for domination seems so American that it’s a good thing it imploded. (Maybe American covert agents were behind it all along.)

Also, I don’t know why this is, but I think everyone who is out competing in winter sports at any level just generally LOOKS good. Maybe it’s the lack of sweat, plus the lycra body suits that cover up the overstrained muscles enough so the athletes don’t look like lab experiments.

Hockey isn’t my sport, but I learned more watching the US-Canada and Canada-Russia games than I have in all my life. The speed, the set-ups, the passing, the lack of cheap hits and fighting–all were beautiful things to behold. While this won’t turn me into a rabid rink rat, it will at least make hockey fans more intelligible, if not tolerable. And the pictures of the Canadian Women’s Team drinking beer and smoking cigars after winning the gold medal are the coolest pics I’ve seen in a long time. Olympic officials can go lick a flagpole if they don’t like them.

Bobsled? I still don’t get bobsled. The vehicles they were pushing down the track looked like NHRA funny cars or something. The pusher in the back doesn’t even get to watch where the rig is going. Where’s the satisfaction in that? Luge and skeleton were a little more entertaining, but here are two ideas for consideration:

Just attach runners to an athlete’s jumpsuit and let er go. Talk about a need for control.

OR:

Send people down the chute in those metal flying saucer things we used to ride as kids. The kinds that spun around and gave you know control about anywhere you were going. (Two years ago, I watched some kids in Chicago sledding in the top of a Weber kettle, which was pretty macho.) It would at least let us see the expressions on the player’s face.

One reason I think I’m addicted to watching the Winter Olympics, especially the ski competitions, is that I miss “ABC’s Wide World of Sports.” Skiing was a regular feature on that show, and to a kid in Detroit the broadcast locales were exotic, like St Moritz and Squaw Valley and, yes, Whistler. That romantic aura still infects me when I go skiing, no matter how long the lift lines are, how expensive the food and lodging is, and how obnoxious the snowboarders are.

So, thank you, Winter Olympics, for this two-week binge of excitement, vicarious competition, and harmless jingoism. (Well, the Russian hockey team might find such jingoism a little painful when they return to their homeland. Suck it, comrades.) They’re not for everyone, and the arguments against the Games from the non-fans are completely plausible. The way I see it, if you don’t like or participate in winter sports, then you’re a punk (especially if you live in a cold climate). Everyone should at least be grateful that the Winter Olympics have postponed the debuts of “The Marriage Ref” and “The Tonight Show seized by Jay Leno” and all the amazing, breathless coverage of the Oscars that will immediately flood the media.

Who will be left to perform in the closing ceremonies? They used every single Canadian performer I can think of, short of Anvil and Mike Myers.

Posted on

New true/slant post up, FRESH!

Check it out, and if you’re curious about true/slant, browse around the site and tag me as a commentator you’re “following”. It’s the future, baby!!

GOP: Justice is more than NYC can handle

The announcement from Atty. Gen. Eric Holder that alleged 9/11 mastermind Khalid Sheik Mohammed and four other Guantanamo inmates would be tried in federal court was a strong statement of the primacy of the rule of law in this country.

Predictably, the GOP leadership hated it.

Posted on

Freelancers, Take Care of Yourselves

Just posted a little essay at true/slant, reminding all the freelancers and the self-employed to keep some perspective in this hard economic period. There are benefits to being your own boss, but a lot of pitfalls, and we should be good to ourselves so we don’t fall into them. Please check it out, and add any ideas that I might have left off my list:

Self-Employed? Take care of your best employee

….
There’s a reason you are working on your own, and that is because you’re good at it. Especially if you are in a creative field, take some consolation in the fact that your skills are unique and are a wondrous gift. It was true when you were young, idealistic and naïve, and it’s still true.

Posted on

We Should All Get This, Every Morning

You know how the defense lawyer in “Miracle on 34th Street”, at the climax of the trial, brings in bag after bag of letters addressed to Santa to prove that he (Santa) exists? Now I know how it feels. It didn’t involve bags and bags, but the sentiment was there.

This morning in my email, from out of the blue, I received FIVE fan letters. That’s about ten months’ worth for me (except in January, when I get a few more, when the schoolkids down in Texas start figuring out what short story they want to read in their forensics competitions and they have to email me to verify that I’m an American citizen). Three were from the US, one from England, and one from South Korea, who especially said that “You really makes whomever sees you happy”. See? Walking down the STREET, people smile at me like I just tried a new shampoo! I’ve always suspected it, but now I know!

(The cynic in me tried to figure out why I got so many in one shot, like they were being hoarded on the web, or someone was pulling a practical joke. But they all look genuine to me, from five very different folks, and by gosh, I’ll take all the fans I can get.)

So, a big thank you to those fans! Your notes made a big impression on me, on this rainy morning in Chicago. I’ll respond right away.

And to anyone out there who feels like sending a fan letter to someone — a writer, an actor, a teacher, a scout leader, or a coach — send it off today. You never know, but it might make someone’s day.

Posted on

New true/slant post up

Tired of those messages on license plates that carry messages other than “Live Free or Die” and “Famous Potatoes”? Check out my new post at True/slant.

And if you want to do a guy a favor, sign up for a free membership at true/slant, then mark me was one of the writers you’re “following.” The more followers I get, the more likely I’ll be asked to keep writing for them. You’ll also be supporting a web journalism model that actually pays the people who supply the content! Yes, let’s show them it can be done!!

Posted on

Fear of the Butt-Bomb

Going through security at the airport is a big enough hassle, what with the scanning and the wands and the possibility of a strip search. But thankfully, it looks like cavity searches for explosives will not be coming in the near future.

The possibility of blowing up an aircraft with a strategically hidden “keister bomb” is still only a terrorist’s homoerotic wet dream, according to experts who talked to the Kansas City Star:

A month ago in Saudi Arabia, a terrorist named Abdullah Hassan Tali’ al-Asiri reportedly walked past palace checkpoints with a small bomb inserted in a body cavity. Judging by the al-Qaida video featuring him proudly holding a device before committing the deed, it was about 3 inches long.

He wanted to blow up a Saudi prince but succeeded only in blowing off his own bottom half and destroying the floor, killing himself in the process.

“The force of such an explosion would be in the direction of the easiest exit,” said the Missouri University of Science and Technology researcher and inventor of explosives, who more or less laughed off the threat.

“The rest of the body would work like a sandbag against the blast… though it would be a mess.”

The article is worth reading for the readers’ comments at the end. Nothing brings out the sophomoric humor quite like exploding suppositories.

Seriously, is that any way that a martyr would want to show up in paradise? My guess is, once he’s in the front gate and has been patted on the back, the questions would start — “The bomb was where? Did you put it there yourself, or…..?” — and wouldn’t end for all eternity.

Posted on

My First Post for true/slant

true/slant is a very interesting new site for news and opinion. My friend Lou Carlozo has been posting there for a few months now, and he helped me get connected with the site. It’s quite a lot of fun to bounce around and see what the writers are thinking and commenting on one another. A few are journalists you’ve heard of–Matt Taibbi, Jamie Malanowski–and some are unknown but reporting from all over the world. It’s worth checking out.

Now for the next few months (at least), I’ll also be a contributor to the site. I’ve posted my first commentary and think you’ll like it. (If you’re sniffing around my site now, you know what to expect from me. No much reasoned analysis, lots of infantile humor.) If you like the essay, please register with true/slant and mark me down as someone you’re following. If I get enough readers following me, I get a pony.

Here’s the link for the essay, and an excerpt is below:

Dear Hugh Hefner:

I don’t know whether to thank you or sue you. For decades you’ve been blanketing America with acres and acres of pink, blemish-free female skin. You’ve been hawking the Playboy lifestyle of sophistication, erudition, and expensive electronics. You’ve been responsible for more elevated mattresses than Serta, Sealy and the Craftmatic Adjustable Bed combined.

But you had an agenda. You were trying to make me gay, weren’t you? (And I thought that’s what Details Magazine was for.)