Half Past Awesome

Projected Image Of Me After 1 Week In Florida

Friday was the last day of work for me for 9 days. I’ll be joining my brothers on the fire department hockey team and we’ll take a trip to Orlando, Fla., competing in a public safety tournament, where I expect we’ll have our asses handed to us once again. The prospect of getting out of single digit temperatures in Missouri, away from the usual parental responsibilities, and enjoying some good times on ice pales when compared with the real reward of a week away from the firehouse:

THE FREEDOM TO GROW A BEARD

Although the Constitution doesn’t specifically lay out protections with regards to beard growth, I have it on good authority that the Founding Fathers were mightily concerned with regards to facial hair freedoms. Most modern-day fire departments choose to ignore this basic, fundamental (mostly implied) Constitutional right, all under the guise of “professional appearance” and safety issues with regards to breathing apparatus face pieces. “Scoff”, says I. While you out there are sleeping the night away with manly beards keeping your necks warm and snug, those of us in the fire service suffer the indignities of a nude chin (or, chins, as the case may be).

And for one glorious week, I shall join you people, and celebrate this most American of privileges. Many years ago, I enjoyed a rather full and disgusting beard which, when combined with my shaved head, led to muted suggestions that I was a felon. Shockingly, I was single for the duration of this period. Then came a career in government service and with it the disappearance of follicles of greatness upon my mug. I’ve missed it ever since.

Still think a beard is anything less than a hallmark of superior character? Let’s examine these 3 distinguished characters in bearded history, then I’ll let you decide.

• Abe “The Babe” Lincoln.  You may have heard of him. His striking beard, also known as the “Illinois Tickler”, served to not only distinguish him as the first president to have the clankers to sport a beard, but also was the inspiration for the modern day Amish-chic so popular in the upper Ohio Valley. This beard oozes power and charm; Abe was said to have trimmed it with an axe, so as to intimidate would-be secessionists. Voted “Most Likely To Unite A Nation During A Tumultuous Period In American History” by Springfield High School class of 1819, Lincoln later credited his beard with being the sounding board for all of his wartime strategies; “I could not have done it without the ‘Tickler’”, he’s rumored to have said at a cocktail party with fellow former prairie-lawyers.

• Tired of all the pressure that came with the title of “People Magazines Most Beautiful Man Since The Dawn Of Time”, a one Mr. Brad Pitt decided to draw attention away from his chiseled good looks by joining the Bearded Underground. This strategy was brilliant; instead of ooh-ing and ahhh-ing and offering their collective bodies at the Altar Of Brad, the public would be forced to contend with his acting skills, formidable as they are. While every gossip rag, website and coherent female was busy lamenting his choice to cover his mug with glorious, unkempt hair, Pitt went on to make such badass films as Snatch and the Oceans Series, all while secretly building up a private army of children from various nations. My well placed sources tell me the first targets that his military complex intends to invade are E! Television and, coincidentally, People Magazine.

• Jesus Christ. Lamb of God. Light of the World. God Manifest In The Flesh. You know who I’m talking about. If the Savior of all mankind thought it was hip to sport the beard, how can it be wrong? And I challenge you, faithful and fallen alike, to find an image of the original Holy Roller without the facial hair. From likenesses that appear on waffles & toast to the most sacred houses of worship, The Seed Of Abraham is always sporting the chin hairs (not counting his time in the manger). I don’t think I could get a stronger advocate for beardification. Now, you may want to step aside, since I’m sure this unauthorized endorsement comes with a lightning bolt with my name on it.

So there you have it. Abe Lincoln, Brad Pitt & Jesus Christ Of Nazareth. These three men all enjoyed the freedoms of facial hair, and I am beside myself in anticipation of joining the ranks of the Bearded Macho Faithful.

One defined a country, one defined cinematic success and one defined the salvation of the faithful; to NOT grow a beard at this time seems like I’d be spitting on all that it means to be a genuine man.

My beard and I look forward to the trip.

This prety much says it all

Well, the age-old argument reared its ugly head again last night. I say “age-old”, but I really mean “since 2005″. And 2005 is relevant because that is the year that Stephenie Meyer unleashed the undead beast that is Twilight, her dreary vampire romance juggernaut.

You probably know where this is headed, and if you don’t here’s a subtle hint: it’s a genuine war of the sexes. I’ve often wondered how it is that one single solitary author can tap into the nerve center of women and girls the world over with regards to the male ideal. My wife is normally a logical and sane woman, but when the subject of undead romance comes up, she goes into a swooning frenzy. I’m picturing love in the undead world being a whole lot more populated by flesh-eating zombies; she pictures some morose guy who never sleeps and spends his time moping around and proclaiming his eternal love for your limited-time body.

SO I asked her: how did Meyer tap into that vein of crazy in every brain of all these ladies? What made this creepy, pasty lump of dead flesh so appealing that you and millions of others have fallen in love with a fictional character? She says it’s because of his endless devotion, that even though he’s already dead, what he really wants is to die yet again for the love of a whiny teenage girl. This appeals to women. My theory is that despite the liberation of the fairer sex, despite equal opportunity advances and the advent of the pantsuit, there is still a desire to be rescued by many women, apparently and preferably by someone who feasts primarily on human blood.

My response?

This is total crap.

Women have had the opportunity since the dawn of time to have a guy throw themselves in front of careening danger as a gesture of devotion. Those guys? They were called “nice guys” and you didn’t want nice guys. Nice guys didn’t cut it: you were busy pining over the bad boys with early-onset felonies. You may have called these guys “assholes”  in polite company, yet it seemed as though you secretly hoped they would drunkenly shove their tongues down your throat while the nice guys built pimples and perfect attendance records. I don’t think I have to spell out any further what team I was on (can I get that door for you?).

The answer, therefore, must lie in the undead nature of this kind of person; nice guys are only appealing as an eternal option when they no longer have a heartbeat and are ice-cold, unsleeping vampires who wile away the night watching you sleep (in the human world that’s called “stalking” and is a punishable offense). But at least I finally got it. It took that long, but apparently, I am now in tune with what it is about the vampire-attraction.

Or so I thought.

Turns out the bad boy jerkface is still appealing to women in the same genre.

They just happen to be underage werewolves.

And so, the chasm between men and women remains, mysterious and unanswered for another generation.

Don't Sit On His Lap

I know, I know, it’s too early to talk about the upcoming Christmas season. But since I’ve seen lights and heard the insipid seasonal tunes blaring since mid September, I figure it’s high time I make known my demands of the holiday season. These are non-negotiable items and, should they fail to be met, absolutely nothing will be done about it.

Nonetheless, you have been warned.

The 12 Demands Of Christmas

1. I demand that no Rod Stewart Christmas songs be played, anywhere. As if his “catalog” of standards weren’t bad enough, apparently Mr. Stewart thinks we wish to be warbled to in the most unholy fashion during this season: the crooning duet. Don’t believe me? Check out this link here, a rendition of “Baby, It’s Cold Outside” with Dolly Parton. Somewhere, little baby Jesus just puked all over his swaddling and myrrh. Rod, stick with “Forever Young”, the only song of yours that doesn’t resemble the sound of angry cats mating.
2. Furthermore, I demand that inflatable yard ornaments be cut with a knife by neighborhood hooligans. No one needs life sized snow globes in their yard, any more than they need busted water heaters and fighting chickens. To summarize: light displays creative origin = good, hot air balloon sized caricatures of Santa bent over an inflatable chimney = horrific.
3. Next up, I demand that every man, woman and child be forced to commit the movie National Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation to memory. Let’s face it: most likely, no one reading this was alive when “It’s A Wonderful Life” was filmed, and though fans will angrily rise up and defend the piece as timeless, we can no longer relate realistically to that era. Christmas Vacation, however, is the story of every awkward, chaotic family gathering that we’ve all known too well. Plus, Beverly D’Angelo is a vision in that short green cocktail dress, the sassier and sexy Mrs. Cleaver of our generation.
4. Eggnog shall from this moment forward be banned, much in the same manner as DDT. I had the unfortunate experience as a child of running out of milk for my cereal, and, well….you can just guess how that all played out. BANNED!
5. Demand: more parties this time of year, involving mistletoe, people with shortsighted decision making habits and any alcoholic beverage (except eggnog).
6. I demand that there be a less anti-climactic post-Christmas. We spend three months gearing up for the day, only to have it all over two hours after we wake up. The Road SHOULD Go On Forever, And The Party SHOULD NEVER End. Or, at least make it last a couple of days. The Jewish people are on to this gig, making their celebration last longer than Octomom’s moment in the bright lights.
7. I demand Justin Beiber’s head on a plate, preferably to the chorus of a million wailing girls and their ridiculous moms.
8. Christmas Season Demand #8: the return of the 3 martini lunch. In our pc/lawsuit-driven world, we’ve lost the authenticity of a people who can create with a little firewater on board. Admit it: no one went out for a wheatgrass and hummus smoothie while designing the lunar landing craft. Had it been suggested, that person would’ve been shot on sight for being a commie-sympathizer. And no jury would’ve convicted.
9. I demand that holiday shoppers be armed when sales (ie- Black Friday) are held. As well, these sales will be cage-style Mad Max deathmatch events. You want that damn Tickle Me Uncle Henry doll so bad? How about you try to grab it from a velvet sweatsuit-wearing, chain smoking grandmother wielding a Stihl 044 chainsaw? That would be worth getting up at 3am to observe.
10. Next, I demand that every male over age 4 has a dickie turtle neck and is forced to wear it with a sleeveless vest, tastefully embroidered in a hideous fashion. Don’t know what one is? Lookie here, or in any family Christmas picture from the 70′s. Said outfit is to be worn from Nov. 17- Dec. 31st.
11. I want a partridge, and I want it in a pear tree. There must be something delectable about this combination, because we’ve been droning on about it for the last 672 years. Will it live up to the sonic hype? My demand shall answer that question.
12. Lastly, I demand that people embrace an old friend at least once this season. I’ve burned enough bridges to really miss some folks lately, and despite my idiocy, it is my hope that we can see past our pig-headed ways and remember what made us such great compadres in the first place. It starts with a pint of Guinness and a grasping of the shoulders; if you’re lucky, it ends with passing out in a gutter covered in reckless memories.

CrossFit Karate Kid (flashback photo courtesy of Cindi Little)

This post marks 200 attempts to amuse and entertain you, you ungrateful lot. Wait. I didn’t mean that.

That was the cheap rum talking.

So, instead of doing something coy and cute, something you might find on some other trip down Narcissism Lane wherein I give you 200 ridiculous facts about me, or 200 places I want to see before I contract the Hantavirus from a rogue bat, I thought we’d try a different approach.

I thought I’d just say thank you.  Thank you for tolerating the vague inconsistencies of the essays. Thank you for reading these posts. And, in some off-kilter and electronic way, thanks for being friends.

A couple of people need to be publicly lauded. They deserve it.

Thank you

1. The people who take the time to read this blather. When you comment, or come up to me and confess you read the site, I’m inspired to go write a whole bunch more; to do this, I immediately crack open the booze. So, in essence, thank you for making me an alcoholic.
2. CrossFit Springfield. Cult comparisons aside, some people I consider myself lucky to be friends with come out of this gym. That, and I can wear my not-as-fat pants again. My arteries are grateful.
3. The Wife, The Heathens and the ingrate bastard Boxerdog MoJay. You tolerate my mad mood swings and my description of writing for free as a “job”, when in essence, it’s a desperate plea for me to be able to stare at a computer screen for hours on end.
4. ThunderChicken, RoJo, The Dirtbag, El Jefe,  Lyrical Jackass, Chris The Critic and all of my brothers for being good enough friends and family to call complete bullshit on my complete bullshit. I’ll keep trying to buffalo you fools.
5. My psychotic hillbilly neighbor. He is a constant reminder of just how bad it can get. I consider him motivation.
6. People who set shit on fire. Without them, I’d be out of a job. Well, I’d be out of the most interesting part of my job.
7. The Lyin’ Dutchman. I wouldn’t be near as messed up if you hadn’t been. Thanks for making my synapses fire in reverse.
8. Albert Cauz. As my adviser in a college-prep high school he infamously told me: “You know, Uli, college isn’t for everyone”. I’ve never forgotten it, and as I grabbed up the sheepskin on the podium at Cal Poly, it suddenly occurred to me he may have been right. Glad I did it, though. Stubbornness wins again, with the added bonus of crippling student loans. ps- my life in the blue-collar world continues.
9. Esteban. For some reason, that dude amuses me to no end, and every time I see one of his guitar sales infomercials on late night television, I find myself glued to his semi-televangelistic ways; who WOULDN’T want a Cadillac-logo inspired 6-string?. The long fingernails, the dark shades, the sleazy ponytail….the guy has it all.
10. The haters. Besides a voluminous amount of spam from fantastic locations throughout Eastern Europe, there are always commenters who like to post righteous retorts to the ridiculous essays. If they’re bold enough to leave, at the very least, their name, I post them. These folks need to lighten up, but more importantly, I thank them for being out there with enough indignation in their reserves to actually write back. I love me some haters.

And in post #201, I’ll resume offending the rest of you.

Until then, keep an eye peeled for mayhem. Chances are, you’ll find me on the sidelines taking notes.

Demon Slayer At Work (photo by Tony Bock/Toronto Star)

ANGER! RAGE! SHOUTING AT PERCEIVED THREATS TO “OUR WAY OF LIFE”! CONDESCENDING WAGGING OF FINGERS AT SOCIALIST/FASCIST/LIBERAL SCUM!! BUY GOLD NOW BEFORE OBAMA OUTLAWS IT LIKE OUR GUNS!

Boobs! Advice to people who think morning-drive shows are the place to get real relationship help! Boobies! NFL and NASCAR commentary and opinions! Boobs and suggestions of sexual acts hosts would like to perform on celebrities! Humiliating people on the street! More boobs! Constant laughing at unfunny jokes based around farts and penises. Lots of Hooters ads.

BBC-based news and nose-slightly-upturned-at-people-who-have-jobs-with-names-on-their-shirts-style commentary. Aggregated worldviews on a variety of issues with constant interjections of demands for more money from local hosts so as to keep public radio on the air. Interviews with culture shapers and movers, especially as told at local wine-tasting fundraisers for opera and philanthropy. Incessant classical music and obscure recordings from deep space and remote African villages.

Classic rock with ads from the local head shop and deep cuts every hour. Very mellow.

And that about sums up my day in radio. I recently posted on Facebook that one particular radio host was getting especially ridiculous with his doomsday predictions and condescending eyebrow arching across the airwaves. Someone suggested that I always have the option to turn it off and ignore it. And she’s right.

But that is a bit of an ostrich approach – if I don’t like it, I don’t listen to it, thus it does not intrude on my life and effectively does not exist. And, in a free market world, this is the logical and rational approach to avoiding that which I find distasteful. The other side of that argument is that, by making myself ignorant of what is going on out there I’m not really being an engaged participant in the interactions going on all around us.

“How can you stand to listen to (that blowhard Rush)/(the commies on NPR)/(the juvenile gigglers on the Robert & Thomas) show?”

That’s a common question; your choices in media are often your statement of opinion in the social realm. Should you be a Fox News addict, you tend to dismiss all other forms of media as “insidious liberal propaganda”. If you listen to NPR, you probably enjoy lectures on quantum physics and feel guilty about not taking enough public transportation. People are often right to make assumptions about your worldview based on your media consumption habits – after all, if you’re a football fanatic, people are right to question your sanity if you’re caught watching a hockey game on a Sunday afternoon in November.

I take a different approach. In an attempt to be mildly informed, I try and consume media from several different angles and make opinions based on facts as presented by multiple sides. To the consternation of most fundamentalist zealots, I am also able to allow that opinion to be flexible enough to change, should new facts come to light; this makes me “wishy-washy” according to most hard-liners. Mostly, though, I try and remember that media’s primary purpose is to engage and retain as many viewers/listeners as possible, thus driving up revenues and bottom lines. They’re well aware that we are short-attention span consumers who demand to be entertained at all times. So, if shouting hysterically about the oncoming apocalypse as evidenced by the behavior of all Democrats makes good business sense (and it sure seems to, as you don’t hear about too many middle-income national talk radio show hosts), then by all means, demonstrate outrage on behalf of the Founding Fathers all day long. As well, I can understand that the jocks dispensing advice to the people they lovingly refer to as “dumbasses” or “stupid bitch” are most likely targeting young men from 17-28 who wear their hats backwards and have an appreciation for the fine art of Wrestling Smackdowns and Busch beer. That’s all well and good; these people have carved out their niches or jumped on bandwagons and are contributing, in their own ways, to our conversation.

Seeking to halt the spewing of opinions by those with whom we disagree is the start to a very slippery slope, one which I think runs contrary to a free society. I love to shout back at the radio when I’m told how I need a bucket of food for only $599.00 to prevent the annihilation of our species once ObamaCare comes into play. I really and truly enjoy watching televangelists “cure” and “heal” people because I’m convinced it’s some of the best acting on television. It confuses me when my spiritual friends and co-workers get mad at me for tuning it to those channels at the lunch hour – I thought they’d be rooting on the apparently lucrative practice of the Prosperity Gospel as outlined in Malachi and Deuteronomy. Like politics, that’s an area where people only seem to want to congregate with those of the same mindset and any sort of attempt at rational debate is met with a shaking of the head, some clucking, and a muttering of “you just don’t get it”.

I do get it.

I just love a good argument, and I think it hampers your ability to engage in one if you limit your intake of information to only those who either confirm your suspicions or pander to your fears.

To think critically is an exercise that requires more than a soundbite, a sermon or a pledge drive. But it’s an exercise that brings to fruition an informed citizen, something we as a nation could really use.

And who doesn’t love classic rock? Commies, that’s who.

I said, knock it off, you.

Being outraged is a privilege that comes with age.

Today I read online how Justin Beiber has a thing for wearing nail polish. For the briefest of nanoseconds I thought to myself “What the hell is it with these kids today?” and took a swig of Ensure so as to stave off a hip fracture should I fall down suddenly. I went on to read how a member of some pop-music endeavor called Girlicious was busted for cocaine possession (thirteen bags and intent to sell; that chick is making Paris Hilton look like a rank amateur) and will receive (gasp! horror!) counseling and probation. In other newsworthy situations, Amy Winehouse crashed some party that was supposed to be in her fathers honor and sang sober; a television polygamist married his 4th wife, R&B has-been Toni Braxton has filed for bankruptcy again, celebrities with nothing better to do are channeling Marylin Monroe in a bid to remain relevant via faux-nostalgia, Lou Dobbs continues to be cranky about perceived slights to his America by illegal aliens and there’s a political candidate who is running out there on the platform that she’s NOT a witch.

The cynic in me grouchily points out the slippery slope that we as a society are careening down. I angrily shake my fist at the downfall of Our Great Nation, making obscure and inaccurate comparisons to Rome and somehow find a way to drag those damn hippies/communists/anyone who’s ever voted Democrat into the mix. It’s their fault, even if them there subversive socialists in The Media straight refuse to expose this truth.

The realist in my head is far less prone to prognosticating the end of times as evidenced by the success of Justin Beiber. All it takes is a moment to recall the parallels from my own youth, back when we spent time outraging people with the nerve to live past thirty. Justin Beiber taking a liking to nail polish is a veritable rite of passage in teeny-bop culture (TigerBeat, anyone?); David Bowie was shaming Tammy Faye Baker with his makeup applications when I was still in grade school. The Cure’s Robert Smith looked like a pre-op transsexual who was able to make pre-teen girls swoon; some little kid who’s testicles have yet to descend and who likes to put on nail polish is hardly an apocalyptic harbinger. In the 70′s it was almost a pre-requisite to be carrying bags of cocaine in order to be taken seriously as a rock musician. One of Eric Clapton’s most popular (cover) songs is allegedly a warning about the pitfalls of coke and yet I always heard it as some sort of illicit endorsement. He’s clever, that Slowhand. Musicians getting sober, getting broke, finding Jesus at some point, it’s all the same game just with new players and staged histrionics calculated to make you think their behavior is both groundbreaking and scandalous. And witchcraft as a political stagecraft? That’s a move as old as our country itself.

America can tolerate many things, the least worth worrying about being a cranky old newsman who hates Mexicans. We will endure Boy Beiber’s descent into a life of hyper-sexualization followed by a bout of craziness that involves chasing photographers while smoking Marlboro Reds two at a time and his eventual evolution into a Scientologist worthy of redemption and sold out shows at Disneyland Europe. Politicians will continue to sacrifice honor and dignity to the altar of popularity and power. We’ve endured the shame of burning witches as a country once before, so to crucify idiots on Saturday Night Live is just a PC version of highlighting the hypocrisy of the Fearmongers of Fox News.

That notion is quite comforting, really. America The Great is not, then, truly threatened by gay people wanting to be married any more than she is threatened by a cross-dressing pop star nor coke addled celebutantes or skirt chasing commanders-in-chief. As an institution the United States is far more solid than we might be led to believe.

And, along those lines, I guess I’m not old, then, since I’m entertained as opposed to outraged.

I’ll save that emotion for a cause far more worthy. Something like those kids who’ve never heard of belts and insist of showing me their underwear when they slouch around the mall.

Damn kids.

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.

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.

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.

Raise Your Hand If You Hate Gay People. (Photo courtesy AP/Lenny Ignelzi)

Recently, Dr. Laura Schlessinger The Rabid decided to retire from radio after engaging in a racial tirade with an African American caller. Laura Kipnis wrote a great article about it on Slate (read here). The theme of the article is that we love to find scapegoats, especially when they fall from their high perches that are trimmed out in moral superiority. I agree with crux of the argument, actually, with all of the article. In fact schadenfreude is a basis for most of my own tirades, especially in our celebrity-driven culture. So, yeah, of course I was glad when the angry woman who condescendingly doles out fear-mongering finger wags gets knocked down several pegs. But it also begets a larger question:

WHO IN THE HELL CALLS IN TO RADIO SHOWS AND HOPES TO SOLVE INTIMATE PROBLEMS ON-AIR?

If you’re a sixteen year old girl who wants to know if a boy really likes you, then, maybe, I guess? If you call syndicated morning shows, chances are those guys are looking for material to keep their shows funny and relevant. You’re gonna play right into their hands when you seek their advice after you catch your girlfriend having sex with an entire minor league hockey team. This makes for good air time and making you look the fool.

The same holds true for people who seek the advice of polarizing zealots on-air. If you mention to any number of talk-radio hosts that you voted Democrat once in 1982, they’ll admonish your lack of capability, and woe be to you if you say “actually, I examine the issues and candidates before pulling the lever one way or the other.” This is cause for them to verbally abuse you and refer to you as a “waffling, weak, fence-sitter.” Independent thought is not encouraged; it’s party line or die, baby.

So the real loser in the Dr. Laura debate is the caller “Jade”. She was seeking Dr. Laura’s counsel about her white husbands’ friends who were racially intolerant of their marriage. Well, Jade, those guys sound like idiots, and my uninformed advice is to junk-punch those fools, both literally and in debate. That shouldn’t be too hard – ignorant people rarely see it coming.

But more importantly, Jade, what the hell were you thinking asking Dr. Laura? She’s a mean old hag who’s advice to people seems to be limited to “you need to get over it” and “read your Bible.” Seek the counsel of those who know you well, or those who you pay on a professional basis. Radio hosts are entertainers who are driven by the capability to sell ad-space and seem relevant in today’s world. They are not there specifically to help you. They are there to amuse the rest of us, often at your expense. Dr. Laura used you as a platform for her insanity; I think it was less what she said and more the unhinged delivery that gave most people the heebie-jeebies. She sounded like a total jerk, and her sponsors responded. Her retirement? Pure coincidence.

Just promise me you won’t be buying gold from Glenn Beck in the near future, Jade.