Half Past Awesome

Self portrait from the week I didn't shave in 2000

Awful results are the result of the creative process gone awry. I thought of some of my spectacular turdblossoms as well as the horrible ideas of some luminaries of our time. This list is as comprehensive as I could get in twenty minutes. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to go make some more bad decisions. I leave you with this, a list of random terribleness:

• Jermaine Jackson naming his sons “Jaafar” and “Jermajesty”.
• That stupid silly Rasta hat I tried to pull off in 8th grade. At least I bought it when I worked in Antigua. Still a terrible idea, though.
• Vinyl siding. Ranch-style homes in general.
• Octomom as someone worth discussing, much less rewarding financially. Nice job, America.
• Deciding to stay in my hometown for college. Because, you know, there’s nowhere else in this country that has universities or anything like that. F-in’ brilliant.
• The war in Iraq. Seems to have been awfully expensive, in terms of lives and money, and oh, yeah, apparently forcing freedom on people seems to have backfired. How dare they.
• McDonalds. Every time it sounds good and I shell out cash for atrociously prepared food, I have instant buyers remorse and my intestines launch a full-scale revolution. I never learn.
• Dell Digital Jukebox. When Apple released its 1st generation iPod in October of 2001, I’d have none of it. I bought a 20gig Dell DJ and promptly showed them. Akin to buying a Betamax in the face of VHS, my decision reflects my vast inability to forecast popular culture, much less anything to do with technology.
• Celibacy. I find it hard to take marital advice from Catholic clergy, not that that is ever a reality in this particular marriage. But seriously, how do couples take the advice of someone who’s only guessing? My advice? Marry someone who will tolerate your idiosyncrasies and try your damndest not to be an asshole. That’ll be $165.oo.
• Honesty; at least, when it comes to your friends’ significant others. People don’t want your honest opinion, what they want is validation of their choices. So, to recap: whatever decision they make is the right one, so just nod your head, murmur in agreement, take another shot of whiskey and hold your damn tongue.
• Putting people on television who’s only discernible talent is partying, mindlessly having sex with strangers, tanning to a state of perma-orange and putting their hair three feet in the air. Wait….that just describes my peers of the 90′s. Why weren’t we paid for that? I demand a tv show for me and all my friends circa 1993.
• Allowing anyone over 68 years old to drive. Or anyone under 25, for that matter.
• Outlawing prostitution. If consenting, adult strangers agree to agree to engage in it without payment? That’s cool, in fact that’s called Saturday night for most people in their early 20′s. Totally different in the eyes of the law if it’s a business transaction, though. Love ain’t free, you know.
• Outrageous body hair. Look, I realize that somehow along the journey of evolution all this bodacious hair made sense, but I swear, I don’t need it anymore. I have shelter (at this point) and there’s no obvious advantage in having Chewbacca style hirsuteness. Kindly, fall off my body, already.

ThunderChicken & The BabyClucker

To witness unconditional love is to witness grace itself. As fathers, when we hold our children for the first time, there’s a moment of immersion wherein our complete being becomes compromised and torn down and rebuilt. Our souls, our hearts and minds, everything we’ve ever known gets forever altered and intricately intertwined to 7lbs. 11ozs. of chaos. And we’re never the same for it.

To love like that, in that moment, so selflessly and overwhelmingly is a thing of relentless beauty. Few moments in life can rival this experience. It is a fleeting taste of unbound joy and desperate terror as we realize our every action from here on out will, in some odd way, impact the life of something so innocent and so pure. The birth of both of my boys rewired my heart forever.

Of course, being as how they are now 7 and 5, that innocence is melting like a glacier; we immerse ourselves not in swaddling and gentle stolen moments of holding the babies, but rather, in Transformers and fart references and the joy of cleaning up 7 million Lego pieces at a time. And that’s ok, too.

Thunderchicken became a father to a little boy yesterday. His daughter calls him her “Five Dollar Daddy”, a story that she’s concocted about how she “bought”  Thunderclucker for a half sawbuck way back when. Theirs is a wonderful relationship, but I don’t have female offspring, and girls and women scare me, so I don’t pretend to understand the dynamics of fathers and their daughters, not even a little. But a son, a son is a being I can comprehend.

I was at the firehouse when Thunder and his wife welcomed their boy into the world, and it wasn’t until this afternoon that I got to see the little dude. We’d exchanged texts, like the teenage girls we are, yesterday, when he announced the arrival. Unconditional love. Two words, a bond shared between man and son, and that life altering moment. When I walked into the room, his baby wasn’t in his arms, but the look on Thundercluckers face spoke the volumes he was feeling. All of them, mashed up into one overwhelming onslaught of unabashed joy. His lovely wife was recovering from the whole affair, tired and gracious as ever. That sort of energy is infectious, and when love fills the room, if that doesn’t bring a smile to your face and peace to your heart, then you’re one cold bastard. Their little man is safe and healthy and sleepy and for that briefest of moments, you believe in the triumph of the human spirit, despite all that is wrong and crazy and destructive in this world. This boy is hope, theirs and the rest of ours.

As people gleefully passed this baby around like the cheese plate at a cocktail party, I was overwhelmed with emotion towards this person I’d known for all of seven minutes. More than that, I saw the look on his old man’s face. This is a boy who will be loved, as a child deserves, unconditionally and forever. He’ll grow up and break his parents’ hearts, his siblings toys, several rules which will cause the Thunderchicken to lose what hair he’s hoarding on his skull. I’m so excited for him, for his family. The bond between father and son is unlike anything I’ve ever felt and commandeers the better part of your heart. Watching my friend establishing these bonds is a privilege, indeed.

Congratulations, Brian.

"You boys want we should get ice cream aftah the next job?"

We went and caught The Town the other night, the first time I’ve abandoned the effervescent Chris Hopper Louzader for a movie review in recent memory. That’s okay, though, since she was off partying in that most party-centric of states, Wisconsin. And lately, EVERY movie we’ve caught together has been a grade A turd of a clunker, so methinks she’s got the bad JuJu and unwittingly curses cinematic output. Don’t tell her I said that.

The Town. The premise, according to IMDb goes like this: “As he plans his next job, a longtime thief tries to balance his feelings for a bank manager connected to one of his earlier heists, as well as the FBI agent looking to bring him and his crew down.” This dances scarily close to the edge of a formulaic movie plot, and I was wary, especially since I’m no Ben Affleck superfan (at least, not since Good Will Hunting) and he wrote, directed and starred in this effort. I was prepared to be underwhelmed into a popcorn-laced stupor.

I could not have been more wrong.

This movie kicks ass. A lot of it.

Ben Affleck, as Doug MacRay, is the quintessential Bostonian that I conjure up in my mind: gritty, wicked accent with no discernible use of the letter “r”, former hockey player and tons of Irish references. He’s perfect in a restrained and melancholy way, playing the part with an authenticity only a true Bostonian can bring. His pseudo-”brother”, James Coughlin, is executed flawlessly by Jeremy Renner, who, despite the undertones early on that foreshadow his fate, nails the role down. He is always “on” as a character, and is able to engender empathy, despite his scumbag persona. The whole movie sets up with a self-aware, self-loathing tone from the first scenes that lead the viewer to form an allegiance with the bad guys. So much so, in fact, you almost find yourself rooting for a car bomb to take out zealous FBI agent Adam Frawley (another picture perfect portrayal, this time by Slick Guy Du Jour Jon Hamm). Wait, aren’t they the good guys? Doesn’t matter by movies end. The loyalty you might feel for the gang of bank robbers trying to sort their way out of the despair that is their home town also manifests as a sub-story of the movie itself: loyalty. Loyalty to those we love, loyalty to our roots and loyalty to our brothers.

As MacRay remains torn between loyalty to the only life he’s known and an opportunity at love and escape, one thing becomes abundantly clear: Affleck is clearly a talented filmmaker, writer and actor, especially when given the chance to shine the spotlight on his home territory. And as long as Jenifer Lopez never sets foot in Bean Town, I think his efforts will keep getting better.

Intense acting, intense movie and stellar results.

Overall Movie Score: Very Solid A

"I Am Dead To You"

I needed perspective. And perspective, it was given.

Last night I ran my iPod through a wash cycle at the firehouse. Much to my amazement and indignation, iPods don’t usually make the trip through the cycles of a washing machine very gracefully. The fury, slow to build at first, began to boil over within minutes. Stupidity, lack of attention to detail, general idiocy and a keen sense of self loathing all began to manifest until I began to seriously consider smashing my head into the station’s bench vise to atone for my sins. It didn’t help when I called home to confess my deeds of neglect and The Wife was not surprised in the least. She threw out terms like “typical” and “we can’t have anything nice” and punctuated her distaste with long exasperated sighs. I briefly considered sleeping in front of the rear axle of Engine 2, so that when they made the inevitable medical call in the middle of the night, purgatory through pain could be complete.

The ride home on my motorcycle this morning was a good chance to re-hash my wanton neglect. A rageful melancholy was consuming me, right up until a rogue grasshopper clocked me in the jaw (which, in case you’re wondering, feels as though you’re being slapped in the face with a condor). This was a jarring experience, to say the least, and reminded me of a call we made last night.

We’d just returned from a Public Education event on the south side of town. It was the first annual Epically Awesome Barbecue event at local hotspot The Metropolitan Grill with a portion of proceeds going to the police and fire departments as well as the Breast Cancer Foundation of The Ozarks, to name a few. It seemed to be well-attended, a good mingling with people who generally stick to that side of town. We were grateful to be included in the whole affair. But a common statement/question was thrown out there several times: “I bet you guys get to see alllll kinds of weird/strange/terrible stuff. What’s that like?” And, on our side of town? There’s never a shortage of crazy adventure.

Thirty minutes after leaving our friendly and comfortable south side hosts, we were responding to two assault victims in our own north side district. One patient was only three years older than I am, yet the result of a lifetime of bad choices, bad drugs, bad men revealed a woman broken and battered, toothless and disheveled. She and a girlfriend were moving stuff out of her house and an ongoing argument with her man led up to him attacking one of them with a brick and breaking a shovel handle over the back of the other. No one deserves abuse, but those that would harm women and children are especially vile and don’t deserve any grace from my perspective. These people, those that we serve on this side of town, they’re the ones who’ve hit the bottom. It’s not my responsibility how they got there, but it is our job to help them when they need us. Through her toothless ranting and screeching and most-likely inevitable return to that situation was a broken person beside that broken shovel handle. Weeping and wailing with soiled pants and a busted elbow, she was crying for help.

But life is not a cartoon, nor a rom-com movie with Julia Roberts and a happy ending; it’s not even a story of redemption, at least not for her. She’s hurt, she’s pissed that she’s pissed herself, she’s mad at the cops for not catching the guy right away (which they did within the hour) and she’s mad at us for not understanding her mushmouthed screaming. I cannot invest emotionally in each patient because to do that would equal a complete draining of any feeling I had left. We can offer her care and a moment of comfort and safety, a brief respite from the hellacious world of her own making. She was most likely high as a kite when we saw her (who can endure a shovel snapping across your back and still have the energy to carry on like that while sober?) and there’s a better than fair chance she’ll move back in with her abuser when released from the hospital.It’s a tragic and vicious cycle, and all we can do is respond to the worst of the situations and work towards making them a little better. A broken shovel, a broken iPod and a broken woman. Truly there are problems much greater than the extravagance of portable music on demand.

I’m pretty sure she’d be happy just to have a washing machine, much less a piece of electronics that, for some reason, cannot survive a spin cycle.

So, as I collected smashed grasshopper parts off my cheek and turned onto the road home, ready to face the exasperated jury of my wife and sons, the importance of an iPod and its demise came into a little better perspective.

I hope she finds the courage to change her situation.

And I hope The Wife doesn’t kill me out of frustration.

(Last year I wrote a post to honor those in emergency services who’d lost their lives on Sept. 11th. There’s no need to sing the same song one year later, and yet there is, to a certain extent. You can read it here.)

Today marks nine years since 343 of the FDNY perished in the collapse of the Twin Towers.

Today means nine years have passed since those boys answered their last alarm.

Today means that enough time has passed wherein some may dismiss the awesome loss incurred that day.

But that’s a fools errand. And I say that without a trace of sarcasm.

To the families of those who lost those dear to them that day, I can offer this:

Their sacrifice, while needless and bloody and violent, was not in vain.

Theirs is not a silent testimony to acts of bravery; rather, they live on in our hearts and souls as heroes and fathers and sons who perished in the selfless act of executing their duty.

Today flags around our country will stand at half mast in your honor, and while that is of little consolation to the families you left behind, I hope they know how grateful the rest of us are.

Many talk a good game of bravado. Many athletes are held up as heroes, as are actors and others of dubious celebrity; but it is the everyman, as embodied by the police officer, the firefighter, the people flying coach who won’t let a coward box-knife his way into martyrdom, that deserves our thanks.

Your families miss you, without a doubt, and this fireman raises the glass with all due respect.

Thank you.

"Oh, it's not just the coffee that's hot, baby!"

Tonight I saw a picture of an old high school classmate and his friend at the foot of some Himalayan waters, beautiful mountains shrouded in cascading fog, the look of adventure fresh on their faces, as though they only stopped long enough to get the picture taken, and then it was off to start a revolution in some remote village.

That is not my life. Not in the least.

Let me tell you how my life is evolving.

This morning I was desperately trying to catch that last 13 minutes of sleep we all crave. You know the kind I mean: it comes right after one of your kids wakes you up to inform you of his latest revelation/breakfast demand and the next round of “snooze” on the alarm clock. It is a sacred time, indeed. It is the grown up version of the time in your 20′s when you clung to the base of the toilet, begging God to release you from this hangover with the vow to never, ever drink again, I promise, I swear, just make it go away, oooooh that toilet feels so nice and cool and next thing you know you wake up at 3pm in a puddle of your own vomit. That feeling.

So The Wife was attempting to shoo away the children in the hopes of robbing some heat from me at o’dark thirty, since she drops her thermostat from 118 degrees the night before to 17 degrees sometime in the midnight hour. She uses her icicle toes to ferret out any sort of heat that might still be available, an exercise I thoroughly don’t appreciate.

She tells Heathen #1: “Go away, Daddy & I need some snuggle time”. This is not nearly as racy as it sounds. I simply want those elusive 13 minutes of sleep and my wife wants to play Arctic Explorer with her toes. I hate her for this.

Heathen #1 responds with: “I know why you want us to leave. SO YOU CAN HAVE SEX.“

Good morning.

He is 7 years old. I curse like a lovesick sailor on shore leave around the firehouse, in the shop, at old ladies in traffic, but never around the boys. I’m a sick and twisted bastard, admittedly, but the boys have never even seen that side. I still use the word “potty” for the love of Jeebus; I don’t need my boys going to school loudly proclaiming they’re “slingin’ a deuce, gonna get rowdy”, which is exactly how one verbally addresses restroom needs while at the fire station.

So sex? I’ve never uttered the word around them, but the boy has my full attention now.

“What? I mean, let me repeat that WHAT? And WHERE did you hear that?”

“I dunno. “Allison” told me that word.”

“What do you think it means? And WHAT?”

“It means when two people take their clothes off and kiss. “Allison” says she’s had sex before.”

I find myself, at this point, looking around wildly for that gallon jug of bleach that I can throw at my boys’ mouth. This just won’t stand. I am not ready for this.

It was all fun and games when I caught him at age 2 wildly humping the protective rubber ducky that covered the bathtub spout: that’s just funny, and half the reason we became parents. I laughed, which only made him air hump faster, which made me laugh all the more, and thereby assured he knows deep down, somehow, that sex can be really funny.

But not like this. Not now. Shit.

“Son, that’s not exactly what sex is, but you know what? That’s an adult topic and we’ll talk about it when your older. And, no, “Allison” did NOT have sex, no matter what she tells you.”

“Ok. But that’s what you want to do.”

Trust me son. What I really wanted was that last (now) 9 minutes of sleep, which is a damn precious commodity. You’ve assured that I won’t be sleeping in the near future, since you’ve decided to engage in the practice of talking about the unholy arts. Because, trust me, once you start talking about it, you’ll never stop. Like body hair and trying to gain approval from your father, that shit stays with you for life. You’ll think about it, you’ll do stupid things in the name of it, you’ll love it, you’ll regret it, you’ll feel dirty and liberated and ashamed and glorious all in one fell swoop. You’ll brag, you’ll cower, you’ll chase it to the end of the earth, and you’ll sacrifice your dignity and self-respect, all in the name of taking your clothes off and kissing. It is at once the reason for our existence and the source of our downfall. You’ve begun to cast aside innocence in exchange for pimples and confusion and that endless instinctive drive that will, some day, if you’re fortunate enough, torment you right up to the point of a lifelong commitment to the one you love.

I’d give just about anything for those 9 minutes of sleep now.

But I’d give a whole lot more if I could postpone his growing up for a little while longer.

An Icon Gone (Photo by Mario Tama/Getty Images)

I was reading the online obituaries today, because I’m like that. I stumbled across an article on KTLA’s website that was profiling the deaths of celebrities in 2010. It was a depressing montage, mostly depressing not because I realize we’re all on the way to death’s doorstep each day, but because many of those who decided to croak were memorable from my childhood. Hell, even Edith Shain -THAT woman made famous by her V-J Day kiss- passed away, and although she’s not among my peers, she certainly heralds the tide sweeping that entire generation away. And that’s a little sad.

My grandfather is 93 and gleefully responds to my question about how he’s doing with “well, I’m still alive. I don’t know how much longer, though!” He epitomizes optimism in the face of mortality, and I wonder how he does it. I’m scared shitless of dying; I’ve got young kids and an entire life I still want to live. He doesn’t, not anymore. Most of my grandfather’s generation are slipping away, his children’s children have children and his race has run, I suppose. His body hurts and it’s my guess that he approaches the end with the same stoicism that defined him and other farmers of his era. No use pissing and moaning about the work to be done….you might as well just get on with it.

Many of those who are leaving this world were icons of the 70′s and 80′s. They were mainstays of my youth and now they’re up and moving on and I just don’t know how to feel about it. Mostly melancholy. Yeah. That works.

I’m bummed about our inevitable demise. I’m slightly depressed that Rue McClanahan (the slutty Golden Girl) and crazy-tall Manute Bol checked out. J.D. Salinger died back in January, but since he was such a stubborn recluse, I don’t know if anyone thought to notice. The guy who invented Gumby died about ten miles from where my folks live. There’s a pretty good chance ten million other people I’ve never heard of bought the farm, too, and this is how it should be, but it’s a concerning prospect, nonetheless.

And don’t start selling religious salvation at this point, because frankly, I’m in no hurry to find out what’s on the other side. I think my grandfather might well relate to that quiet genius of a quote from Shawshank Redemption: get busy living, or get busy dying. Either way, we’ve all got a choice to make; my next choice will be between leaded or de-caf.

You gotta start somewhere.

Ladder Truck Love

We worked two house fires last shift. The first was in an abandoned house that has been renovated into a homeless meth den in the recent past; the damage was limited to a scorching of some carpet. The second took place this morning around 5:30 am on the west side of town in the well-worn home of an elderly couple.

They both had only one thing in common: no one was home at either fire.

That’s not too surprising in the case of the first, since the actions of an attempted torching of the place necessitate a departure from the scene in order to avoid culpability. In the second fire, we were told that an elderly couple lived in the home and were unaccounted for, thereby prompting rescue/search tactics to be employed in a serious and aggressive manner. Nada. Or, more accurately, nadie. The house was a maze of rooms and things and junk and the various detritus of life; I really was expecting that we’d find either one of the occupants and most likely find them deceased. The toxic environment of a house fire is a rough ride, and when you’re dealing with the elderly, their ability to survive such situations is a shaky proposition at best. Our truck company was returned to service before I’d ever found out if the occupants had been located elsewhere. Like everyone else, I’ll probably find out on the news tonight.

But back to the common ground. We were granted access to two homes, one deplorable, filth and cigarette-butt laden, what I guessed was literally shit smeared on the walls and remnants of maggoty food and discarded beer cans. The other, cluttered and messy, but not nearly as neglected. Like uninvited guests, we make unspoken observations and judgments of the occupants of these smoky dwellings: how people were living by way of their footprints, what was important, how they kept their homes. And, of course, when you hit the meth-den, you wonder just how people can live exist like this. I read a quote somewhere that said that poverty all smells the same: like stale cigarettes and cat piss. This sounds like a crass generalization, but more often than not, it’s true. We had several toothless passerby offering their own list of suspects, and at one point a lady was questioned but insisted she had only been out to buy smokes and was worried if ——- was still in there. I don’t know what the fire marshal will make of the situation, but I know they’re good at what they do, and they’ll figure it out at some point. We worked our way through both fires, nothing exceptional about either one, save for the fact that like ghosts, the occupants were nowhere to be found. Both homes were snapshots of their tenants, framed by smoke and smell.

As for me, I’ll be left to wonder what makes people tick as I wander through their homes, executing the duties I’m assigned by the chiefs. I’ll see what they’ve left behind, what they never intended for anyone else to see, the family pictures and mementos, the trophies and overflowing ashtrays and piles of laundry and cat shit and dishes in the sink. And we’ll all do it day in and day out, keeping the conversations to ourselves, and the stenches that never leave your nostrils. When the bloggers and commentors and Monday-morning  haters of government all start yammering on about how their firefighters are nothing but overpaid slobs who have it easy, I’ll wonder about them too. Chances are, when they find themselves in a bad way, they won’t hesitate to call us in to serve them. And we will. Late at night, first thing in the morning, any time of day, they’ll call for us and we’ll answer. And we’ll work just the same, whether they’re living in a crack house on the north side, a McMansion on the south side or a melancholy old breakdown of  a house on the west side. The aspect the critics choose to ignore about the fire service is what makes it exceptional: it’s universal. Everyone gets the same treatment and effort. Even if you’re not even home.

"Scouts Honor. I fell asleep MAKING this movie"

I’m not opposed at all to the minimalist approach when it comes to movies. Not at all. I’m not opposed to movies set in remote locales (like New Jersey. Or Europe), nor do I mind forays into subtitles. In fact, a movie that is spartan in dialogue often works, since it allows you to interject your own emotions into the lead characters subtleties.

The American is not one of those movies.

Now, my friends Nathan and Megan of Unknown Films are people who I consider fans of a wide spectrum of the entire cinematic genre, and I’d guess the more obscure the better when it comes to off-kilter flicks whereas I tend to love Anchorman. But I wonder how they’d rate The American, since this movie may appeal to people with discerning tastes while  I found myself relieved when it was over (despite getting into the theater late, missing the previews (which always chaps my ass) and missing the first 7 seconds of the movie).  Why?

I’ll tell you why.

Even the fact that you get to see a lot of George Clooney semi-naked (a plus for resident superfan, Chris Louzader) and many beautiful women (some of whom absolutely refuse to wear a shirt) interact in a thoughtful, sparse manner can’t save the movie from coming across as though the actors are on the verge of dozing off themselves. It is set in a remote village of Italy where, apparently only three people live and most refuse to acknowledge occasional random gunfire. Burned-out assassin Jack (Clooney) retreats there to contemplate one last job of building a gun. He spends his time drinking coffee out of tiny cups and strolling on wet, cobblestone streets always on the lookout for a mysterious gang of Swedes who wish to see him dead. Oh, and spending time trying not to fall in love with a beautiful hooker. I find it curious that hookers and heroes in the movies rarely look like their real-life counterparts, but that’s another essay for another day.

One of the core problems is that you really never glance into the past to see his work as an assassin; outside of some light pistol work, he seems to pass his free time brooding, probably a common trait of the trade. Unfortunately, you get to experience the brooding in real time. This makes for cinematic boredom, despite the beautiful scenery that was as stark and lonesome as the dialogue. Only Clooney comes out the winner, as he’s able display some restraint-based acting chops while taking us on the journey of a paranoid hired gun.

A complete Euro-flop? Nah. Just another tale of love and bore.

Overall Movie Score:  Barely a C+

Fear not, Paris, Vegas will come crawling back. I promise

As I sit here and gaze into a bottomless cup of ground-laced coffee at a local Waffle House, I am feeling a void.

All of those that should be held in the highest honor are slowly being revealed to be hucksters of the sleaziest type. It turns out that Glenn Beck may not, indeed, be much more than a phony baloney, little more than a rhetoric-laden small appliance faith healer. Lindsay Lohan is laboring under the delusion that she’s a “damn good actress”, not the coked-out life of the party that we’ve all come to admire. Someone who’s rise to fame has involved drinking in New Jersey and chiseled abs will soon be dancing as a “star” on television. My Wife likes the music of Justin Beiber. Surely the apocalypse is on its way.

Oh, society, how you’ve crumbled around me.

And now, the cruelest cut of all?

Paris Hilton may be getting banned from many resorts/clubs/venues in Las Vegas due to some white powder issues. Specifically cocaine that jumps out of her purse during routine traffic stops. Cocaine that she claims isn’t hers. The elaborate plots thicken from here on out.

With wars going on on several fronts in this world, Haitians and New Orleaners still trying to rebuild lives torn apart by disaster and a bunch of Chilean miners getting bored with playing strip poker in a caved-in tunnel three miles down, it is still this news that is most troubling of all.

Just who does Las Vegas think it is?

Vegas IS Paris Hilton. Vegas is illusion and neon and idiotic tourists having unbridled, unprotected sex in fountains. Hilton is all that and more. May I remind you, LAS VEGAS, that it is she who made the night-vision sex tape the de-facto cred that wealthy socialites must have in order to gain fame? It’s not enough to be famous for being famous, Las Vegas. You should know this. And, much like the Strip looks the next morning, when you wake up and realize you’re in THE MIDDLE OF THE DAMN DESERT, the reality of Paris Hilton by day is one of self-loathing and disregard for any sort of intellect.

Her fans (and what constitutes a Paris Hilton fan? One usually must have accomplished something to have a “fan”, or am I totally off the mark?) aren’t taking this lightly. She knows this. She knows this so well, that she Tweeted that it was the love and adoration of her fans that kept her from slipping into a nice, warm bath with cuts on her wrists (or something to that effect). The town of Las Vegas damn well better thank her fans for allowing her to continue to hold her head up high and bestow the much sought after title of “that’s hot!” to various inanimate objects.

I mean, c’mon, Vegas, are you really that shocked that an entitled celebutante with millions to burn who lists as a career “professional partier” may dabble in the nefarious world of cocaine indulgence? Really? It is the acme of hypocritical indignation to turn your back on the human equivalent of everything that Las Vegas stands for. Several years ago, the desert oasis tried to market itself as “family friendly” but that was an infantile ruse, and everyone knew it. They should leave family friendly markets to places that have burned out singers from the fifties and formerly communist comedians (“Welcome To Branson! The Mickey Gilley Breakfast Show Will Begin In 10 Minutes!”) Now Vegas is all about their “what happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas” marketing blitz, which is, not coincidentally, the mantra of the very middle-aged swingers and hipster slackers that they’re trying to entice. It wouldn’t be surprising in the least if they handed out samples of Viagra, meth and a rolled-up dollar bill upon check in at your swankier establishments.

So listen up Las Vegas. I might stand idly by as our nation slips to 548th in educational capabilities; I may look the other way when oil bum-rushes our beaches. I might even yawn at the concept of the ongoing costs of wars on our young men and women serving, not to mention the crippling financial burden. Hell, I’ll even fall asleep at the switch when we wake up to find ourselves pledging allegiance to The United States Of Wal Mart. But don’t you think for a minute you can turn your back upon the very beacon of all that is vapid, shallow and “hottt” without consequences. She’s been there for you, so I’d recommend you apologize to Paris Hilton, Vegas, and buy her a dime bag as a measure of good will.