Is it too late for Christmas?

Because I forgot to put this on my list.

Santa should take note for next year.

Great, but ...

Old news, and I'm late to the party: A federal judge in Dover, Pa. has ruled, basically, that the school board there that required its teachers to preach the merits of intelligent design in science class was a bunch of morons, and that intelligent design is not a scientific theory.

That's all well and good. But unfortunately, eight of the nine idiot school board members were cast out of office this fall. The new school board is comprised of folks who are apparently not religious fanatics. So sadly, they're not going to appeal the judge's ruling.

That's unfortunate. Because while it's nice to have a guy in authority -- and a George W. Bush appointee, to boot! -- saying that intelligent design ain't science, Judge Jones's decision sets no legal precedent.

So the next time some backwater hillbillies -- or perhaps some frontwater hillbillies? -- decide to put God in science class, we'll have to go through all of this all over again.

On the plus side, that means that goofballs like Michael Behe will have plenty of opportunity to continue saying dumb things in public, and I will continue to have plenty of opportunity to make fun of them. Still, that's starting to feel like picking on the slow kid, y'know?

Death to prom!

I'm certainly no moral crusader -- certainly not. But this strikes me as a refreshing trend.

Proms suck.

My first prom, my date was an ex-girlfriend who had dumped me (I think, details are hazy) to date some geek at her wacky right-wing church. His mom wouldn't let him go to prom. So she took me. I was a sophomore at the time and thought it was a Big Deal that a junior girl had invited me to prom. What a dumbass. Anyway, the highlight was making out with the girl afterward and convincing her to drop her loser churchboy to get back together with me. A couple months later I dumped her because I got sick of hearing about church. Like I said, no paragon of morality here.

Skipped prom my junior year, basically because I didn't have the guts to ask out this girl I'd pined for off-and-on all through high school. Caused me no small degree of angst. Fortunately, most of my friends were losers too, so if I recall, we gathered together to play Pictionary and watch Saturday Night Live. These were the days when it was still worth watching.

Senior prom remains the worst date of my life. I wasn't going to go at all, mostly for the same reasons I skipped junior prom, until a classmate asked me out, pretty much out of the blue. Can't hurt, I figured. Wrong. Turns out this girl had zero conversational skills, didn't like to dance and had a midnight curfew. Which actually turned out to be a blessing.

So sure, if my parents had been cool and had rented me a limo and a beachhouse and encouraged me to drink and screw all night, I might have a different perspective. But no -- they had to be, like, responsible and stuff.

So fuck prom.

A confession

After much soul-searching and quiet contemplation, I'm ready to make a life-changing announcement to my friends and family. Steel yourselves. Here goes:

I want to see a movie about gay cowboys.

I can't tell you how good it feels to say that. It's like I'm 1,000 pounds lighter. I mean, I thought I might want to see a movie about gay cowboys, but I wasn't sure. It seemed crazy, at first: How could I -- me, Alex! -- possibly want to see a movie about gay cowboys, especially one with such a ridiculously suggestive title? But then I started experimenting ... you know, reading about a movie about gay cowboys (although the NYT review, frankly, is pretty silly -- it was a review in Esquire magazine, headlined something like "The best gay cowboy movie ever," that really swayed me) picturing myself at the theater watching a movie about gay cowboys, that kind of thing.

Oh, and also: That Heath Ledger is just sooo dreamy.

At first I felt dirty. But gradually I've grown to accept it. I hope you can too.

Satiation

So the turkey wasn't "classically" beautiful, and maybe the stuffing was a tad dry, but I didn't hear any complaints.

As Cartman would say, "Get your bitch ass back in the kitchen and make me some pie!"

This concludes my Thanksgiving liveblogging, such as it was.

Happy holidays, folks.

Not exactly the way Mom does it

Remember Christmas Vacation? When Chevy Chase carves the turkey and it lets out this horrible "hissssss" and splits wide open, meatless?

My turkey was something like that (left).

Not really. Although I did bake it upside down, apparently. So it turned out more like a pig pickin' than your traditional fancy-pants thanksgiving. No matter. Delish.

Out with the bird. In with the stuffing.

Continuing with the lamest "live blogging" ever ... in fact, it's not even so live anymore.

Anyway, that's a turkey. It tasted as good as it looks right here.

Interim

Two things going on at this little gathering. Me: Slaving away at the stove. Guests: Not so much. Last Thanksgiving for a while that I fuck with this stuff, let me tell you.

Pictured above: No-good guests; very good cornbread and crab stuffing ( yes, I know it's not actually IN the turkey, but that's the way mom does it).

Turkey, oven. Oven, turkey.

In she goes. And only one phone call to my personal Butterball hotline (mom) thus far.

I'd tell you the recipe, but I think it's a family secret. Rest assured, it's yummy.

My Thanksgiving schedule

8:45 a.m. -- Awake. Drink OJ, throw on clothes, grab water, cleats, jacket.
9:30 a.m. -- Play football. Probably poorly.
12 p.m. -- Home, hopefully. Shower, change. Jump on Metro.
1 p.m. -- Pick up sister at airport.
2 p.m. -- Home, again. Turn on football. Commence drinking. Begin turkey prep.
3:30 p.m. -- Turkey in oven. Continue drinking.
6 p.m.ish -- Eat. Continue drinking.
8 p.m.ish -- Go out. Continue drinking.

I'm thinking about "live blogging" all of this. Or at least the hours from 2 p.m. to 6, which should be the most amusing.

Back in business

The new computer is in town. For my return to posting, I of course have to make fun of something. And this Washington Post story is just too rich a target.

It's a great, groundbreaking piece -- in 1997. Seriously, I bet even my mother, who pretty much hates computers, has bought things on the Internet.

Coming soon: Pictures and vital statistics on my new machine. Now isn't that exciting? Bet you can't wait. As well as more crap from Italy and more poking fun at both my mother and Italians.

In the meantime, read about how my friend Pete nearly severed his thumb. It's great writing, but I don't recommend taking it with a meal.

In case anyone was wondering ...

The Italy slide show has been indefinitely delayed. I suffered a catastrophic computer crash a couple weeks ago, and have put off blogging until I figure out how to deal with the issue (most likely, by sucking it up and buying a new laptop, damnit all).

Until then, I'm using a work machine, and you'll forgive me if I want to keep as much personal stuff off it as possible.

How I spent my summer, Ch. 2: Rome

Rome is cool. Rome at night is cooler. Putting a big Puma ad at the top of the Spanish Steps (right) isn't so cool. One little piece of Americana I wish we hadn't exported.

After spending nearly a week in Rome in August, I've decided that DC is the most touristed place on Earth. The crowds of tourists around the Colosseum were pretty bad, but they've got nothing on the hordes I have to wade through just to do my job between June and September.

Oh, and let me dispel one myth right here. There are no pickpockets or thieves in Rome. No one ever attempted to rob me or Mom (who was equipped with a theft-proof -- albeit awfully ugly -- purse, just in case). We didn't see any crowds of gypsy kids swarming around tourists on the Forum. And I felt a helluva lot safer walking all over Rome at night than I do DC.

So quit writing about it already, Rick Steves.

Photo credit: Me.

Back to the slide show momentarily...

... but first, a rant against Creationists.

Why is this trial even necessary? Why can't these people simply acknowledge one FACT -- inarguable, inescapable: "intelligent design" is not science.

There's no way to test whether an "unidentified intelligence" -- as many reporters seemed to have been conned into calling it -- created life. (I would call it "supernatural being," if I were the reporter on the story -- which I probably will never be, given my quite biased view of the subject. But kudos to AP reporter Martha Raffaele for consistently and accurately referring to ID as an "idea," instead of a "theory.")

If it can't be tested it's not science, and if it's not science it doesn't belong in biology class. The end. Is there a lawyer in the house -- why wasn't this case won on summary judgment?

While we're on the topic of myth and science, this is very cool. Almost as good as catching the Loch Ness Monster on tape, in my book. Shame, though, that they had to badly wound the thing in order to film it.

How I spent my summer, Ch. 1: Flying

Steerage is for suckers.*

We went business class, baby. Which actually wasn't as relaxing as I anticipated. Good food and free booze and stewardesses who asked, about every two minutes, whether you needed more of said booze. And good movies, too -- no "Miss Congeniality 2," thank you very much. "Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy" on the way over and "Sahara" on the way back, plus bits and pieces of "Kingdom of Heaven," television, and video games. ("Guide" is great. "Sahara" is dumb fun, but a bit of an insult to Clive Cussler.)

But I didn't sleep an hour either way, even with all the extra leg and ass room. And I still sat in fear that I would be stricken by deep vein thrombosis.

Anyway, above is The Alps from the plane window. Most impressive mountains I've ever seen, not having ever seen the Rockies.


Photo credit: Me.

*Suckers whose moms didn't buy their plane tickets, that is.

How I spent my summer vacation: Prelude

Let's get this out of the way: More than one person has bitched recently that I haven't been posting often enough and my blog is "boring." You know what? If you want to read my shit every day, buy a subscription to my employer's publication. Otherwise, you'll get it when I feel like it and not a moment sooner.

I feel like it.

At right: Me and my mother on the edge of the crater of Mt. Vesuvius. The Bay of Naples is behind us. Sorrento, where we would spend a harrowing two days (more on that later), is way back there to the left of my head. Capri is to the right of Mom's head.

This was my finest accomplishment of two weeks in Italy: dragging my mother to the top of the most dangerous volcano in Europe. At a few points I thought I might have to administer CPR. Which is really sad, considering that you can drive almost all the way to the top.

(Pause to let Mom curse me a bit.)

Hey, but I'll grant you, that last half-mile or so is a real bitch. Nice that the Italians sell beer at the summits of their volcanoes.

So anyway, now that Blogger has made it reeeeal easy to post photos, I'm going to be industrious-like and post a regular series of items about Italy. Oughta keep certain people off my goddamn back.


Photo credit: Some German dude that Mom thought was hot.

Really, I am ready for some football

The 2005 NFL season kicks off tomorrow night. Time to meet my fantasy team: the Noodly Appendages. Imagine a big inflatable flying spaghetti monster at the entrance to the tunnel to the locker room, as well as a bunch of slutty Creationist cheerleaders, and out they come...

At QB: Jake Delhomme, Carolina and Byron Leftwich, Jacksonville, backed up by David Carr, Houston.
At RB: Tiki Barber, New York Giants and Chris Brown, Tennessee, backed up by J.J. Arrington, Arizona.
At WR: Randy Moss, Oakland; Terrell Owens, Philadelphia and Lee Evans, Buffalo, backed up by Rod Smith, Denver and Marcus Robinson, Minnesota.
At TE: Antonio Gates, San Diego, backed up by Bubba Franks, Green Bay.
Kicker: Jeff Reed, Pittsburg.
Defense: Washington Redskins.

Fittingly, the Appendages' strength is the receivers and tight ends. Or at least until Randy Moss gets his leg broken tomorrow night by the New England Patriots' Rodney Harrison, as one of my coworkers has forecast. I'm not wild about my running backs situation. And Delhomme and Leftwich better have the break-out seasons everyone's predicting, or I'm dead in the marinara in this two-QB league.

Update (9/27/05): Three games into the season, the Appendages are one of two 3-0 teams in the league and are third in scoring. The receivers are carrying the team, as expected. Also, I snapped up (Fast) Willie Parker of Pittsburg and Cadillac Williams of Tampa after the first weekend, significantly upgrading the RB corps. Delhomme was killing me until this weekend, when he threw for 3 TDs. I could care less that it was a losing effort. Carr, Brown, Arrington, Robinson, Franks and Washington's D have all been handed their walking papers.

Sick of my infrequent posting schedule?

Then check out my friend Pete Wagener, who is free to write about stuff I can't go anywhere near. Also, he's cool because his site runs on software he wrote.

It's crossed my mind, too

A friend of mine has decided to retire from personal blogging for the time being, apparently because his site is pointless.

Which is a pretty good point.

The only reason I continue to half-ass it, really, is as a substitute for something quaint like keeping a journal. Someday when I write my memoirs I can look back through my blog and recall all my pointless ruminations about Creationists, fantasy football, crappy drivers, movies, music and friends. Won't that be useful.

Anyway, stay tuned for posts about fantasy football, crappy Italian drivers and maybe some pictures, if I can figure out how to do it.

Even less to see here than usual

I'll be in Italy for two weeks with my mom, probably without access to email or phones or football. On the plus side, mom sprung for business-class on the flights, so I should be drunk by about 2 p.m. Sunday and not sober again until Aug. 27. Arrivederci...

I am, like, sooo ready for some football

NFL training camps have opened, we're in the last month of summer, and Florida State football players are getting arrested. The most wonderful time of the year is upon us!

So here's how the first round of my fantasy football draft is looking this year. Advice is appreciated:

1. Peyton Manning (4,600 yards and 49 TDs in 2004. 'Nuff said.)
2. LaDainian Tomlinson (had him last year; he struggled with his groin -- heh-heh -- but still produced.)
3. Shaun Alexander (big numbers last year; contract year this year.)
4. Daunte Culpepper (with 4,700 yards and 39 TDs in '04, I'd place him higher -- if he hadn't lost Randy Moss.)
5. Randy Moss (still the only WR worth a first-round pick, I think.)
6. Willis McGahee (a monster in the last half of 2004, and no competition for carries this year.)
7. Donovan McNabb (looks a lot better with Terrell Owens on his team.)
8. Priest Holmes (I'm really hoping I'm not in a position to draft Holmes. At 32, and after a pretty steep drop in production last year, I don't trust him.)
9. Edgerrin James (like Alexander also in a contract year, but has to compete for TDs with Manning.)
10. Tiki Barber (led RBs in our league in scoring last year. A fluke or the emergence of a star?)

Guys I'll be looking to steal later. Suggestions are welcome:

1. Jake Delhomme (had him last year; consistently produced and should be better.)
2. Drew Bennett (Tennessee's number one WR with Derrick Mason gone; put up great numbers the last half of '04.)
3. Byron Leftwich (traded for him last year and didn't regret it. Plus he's the hometown guy.)
4. Jermaine Wiggins (if I can't get Antonio Gates or Tony Gonzalez for my TE. Culpepper will need someone to dump to, now that he can't just wing it in Moss' general direction.)
5. J.J. Arrington (who I think will be the best of the rookie RB crop -- he's the only one of the big names who doesn't have to compete for carries.)

Guys I'll be looking to avoid like the plague. Again, feel free to advise:

1. Mike Vick (Ron Mexico simply can't throw, and killed me on a couple occasions last year after I took him in the second round.)
2. Jake Plummer (got him late in the draft last year, but because Vick sucked he became my number one guy. Sometimes looked like Brett Favre. Sometimes looked like Mike Vick. No telling who was going to show up.)
3. Tom Brady (a couple of games a year, he has these 99-yard, zero-TD performances but still manages to win, leaving the t.v. guys to all hail his "leadership" and all his fantasy owners fuming.)
4. Torry Holt (drafted him third round last year; he disappeared in more than one game.)
5. Chris Brown (awesome first few games last year, but then seemed to stub his toe in every game and leave in the third quarter. Irritating, and now he's competing with Travis Henry.)

Why the creationists are winning

In part, because the New York Times identifies their creation myth as a "theory" on par with evolution.

I've pretty much resigned myself to the fact that this nation is slowly devolving into a theocratic idiotocracy. But Jesus H. Christ, Elisabeth Bumiller, you don't have to help the process along.

Gentle reminder: a theory stands up under the scrutiny of scientific testing. Myths, like "intelligent design," do not, and so it is inaccurate to call them theories.

Update: For some guidance, Bumiller could read her own editorial page, where Paul Krugman spells out what's happening.

Double update: I shouldn't pick only on Bumiller. The Washington Post is also guilty. Its reporters at least wait until the fourth paragraph to call creationism a "theory," but then attribute the lack of scientific evidence to a claim by "opponents."

This is a situation where journalists should educate themselves on the subject matter and write with authority: "There is no peer-reviewed science that supports the idea of 'intelligent design,' which is called creationism by many biologists." The end. And when the creationist assholes call to complain, tell 'em to show you the science.

A gifthorse that almost got looked in the mouth

I made my first visit to Greensboro's new "First Horizon Park" on Saturday.

Spent a lot of my time in the Grandstand, the re-make of the bar of the same name that was integral to the city's old baseball stadium. The new bar, like the new stadium, is pretty much superior in every way. Better beer, more room, more seating. Only downside: it's no longer staffed by college hotties. Can't have everything, I suppose.

The rest of the stadium is equally pleasant. A nice wide concourse with your usual assortment of junkfood dealers. Comfortable seats. Good colors, and little architectural flourishes, like the green lamps ringing the outside of the brick facade. A good view of the game from everywhere. Plenty of beer vendors. A playground for the kiddies. A beautiful view from the third base line of Greensboro's skyline, such as it is. Clean, uncrowded bathrooms. It's a gem, pretty much. I bought a Grasshoppers hat. My friends got a free Jim Melvin bobblehead doll, which was really funny if, like me, you happened to have reported on the construction of this stadium. A couple years ago, it might as well have been a Satan bobblehead.

Here is where I almost launched into a lengthy, boring post about how ludicrous it was for a healthy proportion of Greensboro's citizenry to oppose the construction of this stadium, even though it cost taxpayers peanuts, if anything, and has clearly helped revitalize downtown.

(Some context: Washington, DC is about to build a $500 million stadium for its new baseball team, and every penny will come from taxpayers' hides. Now there's a scandal.)

But hey, water under the bridge. The stadium has made a nice town better. Enjoy.

Arrivals

Two very good friends of mine in Greensboro, NC are about to have their first baby. The husband -- I believe in order to vent his mounting panic -- has taken to documenting the experience in a series of often funny, sometimes heartwarming emails. Perfect kind of thing for a blog, but he says he's too lazy (in a city sort of famous for its blogging). Anyway, because I have nothing else to write about, here's an excerpt (plus, I'm a contributor to this one):

Last night, I just watched Nancy’s belly move and squirm. Isaac is
already very smart. He has figured out a series of kicks and punches to
communicate with us, we just haven’t learned to interpret them yet. The
obvious visual comparison is the parasite in the movie Alien, but I
also thought of ol Bugs Bunny cartoon when someone ate dynamite and would
quiver, ready to blow at the slightest jostle.

While I was enjoying the “Wavy Belly” Show, Nancy told me she felt a
contraction. My first instinct was to raise the Delivery Awareness
Level from “Orange” or “Guarded” to “Red” or “Active Delivery Phase”. My mind
quieted down when I looked at Nancy. She’ll know when it’s time.

Here comes the science…..For those of you haven’t been exposed to
making babies (except for rolling over and going to sleep afterwards)*, the
cervix is a thick muscular ring at the base of the uterus. The baby’s
head is slightly pointed to push though. “Contractions” are actually
the muscles in the walls of the uterus practicing for the big day. Normally
the cervix looks like the neck of a turtle neck sweater, but when it
effaces, it stretches and thins out. It also dilates from 0 cm
(completely closed), to 5 cm (ouch this isn’t fun), 8 cm (you son of a
bitch I never wanted kids), 10 cm (baby time).

I’m sure you’ve seen skeletons before. Next time you look at one, look
at the bones in the pelvis. A baby has to get through that hole. Oh
yeah, bone doesn’t strech by the way. When the baby’s head is level
with the bottom of the hip joints, they are at “Zero station” Any higher,
and the are rated at Zero -1-5 (-5 being the highest). Any lower and the
are rated Zero +1-5 (anything higher than three, and the baby is crowning).

Two weeks ago, Nancy was 50% effaced, and 1 cm dilated.

Big Matt.

* Thanks for the joke Alex

You're welcome. I still don't know what all the science stuff means, though.

Notable aside: For my readers/friends in Greensboro, I'll be down there this weekend, visiting Matt and Nancy on what could be their last weekend as DINKs. If you'd like to catch up, I'll probably be at the 'Hoppers (?) game on Saturday. Haven't seen the new stadium, but I'll bet there's a bar, and that's where you're likely to find me.

Alternatively, you can email me, and we might actually, like, plan something.

Quick movie reviews

Seen a couple very good flicks recently that should be plugged. Warning: mild spoilers, but probably nothing you didn't already figure out from trailers and reviews.

1. Batman Begins. Easily the best edition since Michael Keaton and Jack Nicholson, and maybe even better than that one. Christian Bale is totally Batman. Liam Neeson is a badass. Morgan Freeman steals every one of his scenes. So does the batmobile. Katie Holmes looks like a girl in a woman's role (Angie Harmon, who has convincingly played a prosecutor, perhaps should have gotten a call). Also could have done without some of the mystical ninja mumbo-jumbo that burned up the first third of the movie and nearly chased my girlfriend from the theater.

2. War of the Worlds. I sure hate Tom Cruise, but damn if I don't love his movies. I would offer that this movie features the greatest "arrival" scene in the history of extraterrestrial cinema. Like, they come from underground, man! How cool is that? (We'll overlook the logical questions, such as: If they could plant awesome war machines under the Earth's crust thousands of years ago, why didn't they, uh, just invade the planet back then?) Dakota Fanning, who plays Cruise's daughter, is one excellent little actress. How many 10-year-olds have comedic timing, for Christ's sake? The scenes in the basement are some of the most tense in an alien movie since Sigourney Weaver was trapped in the lab in Aliens. Stephen Spielberg is simply a genius. Although the Martians look kinda dumb -- like wimpier Aliens. My only real problem with the flick is something Spielberg couldn't do anything about: the ending of War of the Worlds has always been unsatisfying. I want something like Will Smith and Jeff Goldblum blowing up the mothership in Independence Day, only not so stupid. Instead we get: the flu. At least there's a cool Morgan Freeman voiceover.

Mastered:

On banjo, the opening verse of "Dueling Banjos."

(The verse you might feel compelled to whistle when, say, crossing from Florida into Georgia, or from Guilford County N.C. into Randolph County, or from Arlington into Fairfax.)

It is my finest musical achievement. Bow to me, hillbillies of the world.

State of the fart

The first sign of a Great Society, I believe, is fancy shitters. Still, I'm not sure why I'd want my toilet to look like a hatbox. Seems like that'd just make it harder to find when I'm drunk. Especially when I read this line:

... freeing designers to place the Purist where toilets have never been placed before.

Like ... where? Next to the couch? Nonetheless, I'm a big supporter of advances in toilet technology. I envision a day when we don't even need "bathrooms," a day when toilets blend in with the scenery and no one bats an eye when I drop trow in the middle of a dinner party.

All I want for Christmas...

... is this t-shirt. And for the Kansas school board to be impeached. (Thanks, Lex.)

Tooting my own horn, again

Check me out on NPR's "Talk of the Nation." I'd have announced it in advance, but I didn't want any of you suckers asking me about crazy shit again. And they only gave me about three hours' notice this morning.

Criticism is welcome. It's the only way I can become the best pundit I can be.

You know you live in a third-world city ...

... when the police chief's unmarked police car, full of riot gear, is stolen.

Alex Wayne, activist (so long as it doesn't require, like, actual activity)

One of journalism's many commandments: thou shalt not involve thyself in the activity of governments thou covers.

So because I cover Congress, I don't blog about what they're up to (er, much) or write letters to congressmen or anything like that. Somewhat refreshingly, however, I suddenly feel free to involve myself (a little) in local government. And since I live in a city that may have the sorriest local government in America, opportunity abounds.

For example: the Washington Post recently published an excellent series on our badly mismanaged public transit system. In response, I sent an e-mail to the Metro board of directors (who should all be replaced, by the way):

Dear Metro Board of Directors:

As a frequent Metro rider, I am generally pleased by
the system's service and supportive of providing the
agency more money, including a dedicated revenue
source.

My support, however, has been badly shaken by the
disclosures in just the first chapter of the
Washington Post's series on the state of Metro. The
agency appears to be in a state of disarray and very
badly mismanaged; it does not deserve increased
funding until public confidence is restored.

I hope you will act swiftly to right the agency. I
would offer two suggestions, based on the Washington
Post report, that I believe you could implement
immediately:

1. Replace the chief executive, Richard A. White, who
is ultimately responsible for the millions of dollars
that have been wasted on bad equipment and failed
maintenance.

2. Contract with private firms for escalator
maintenance. At my home station, Eastern Market, one
or the other of the platform escalators seems to be
almost permanently under repair; now I know why.

Sincerely,

Alex Wayne

In response, I get this:

Dear Alex Wayne:

Thank you for your June 4, 2005, e-mail  to the Washington Metropolitan
Area Transit Authority's (WMATA) Board.  The Board has requested that I
respond to you.  

While it is not always possible to implement every suggestion made, we
do consider each one carefully and value your opinions.  Regarding your
idea to contract with private firms for escalator maintenance, WMATA
uses both contractors and in-house mechanics for escalator repairs.  Both
groups have performance standards they must meet.  WMATA has more
escalators than any transit system in the world.  Many of those escalators
are more than 25 years old, but the overall reliability of the rail
system's 588 escalators has improved three percent during the past five
years.  WMATA is taking several steps to improve escalator performance,
including: installing canopies over rehabilitated escalators; installing
remote monitoring systems to quickly identify breakdowns; and
conducting more frequent inspections.

I hope I have addressed your concerns.  We look forward to continuing
to serve you and improving our services for you and all of our patrons.

Sincerely,

Joseph Galinanes
Director of Customer Service
Department of Communications

Nice try, Joe. But you seem to have addressed only one of my two suggestions. An oversight, I'm sure.

Oh how I loathe you, Lucas

George Lucas got the better of me last weekend. I saw his cursed movie. (But I didn't pay for it.)

Grudgingly, I will acknowledge that I was entertained. Which makes it all the more a shame. Rather than just being a kind of fun movie, it could have been a very good one -- if the first two hadn't reeked, and if Hayden Christensen wasn't such a terrible, terrible actor. (The little lady noted that his portrayal of "evil" seems to be confined to looking over his shoulder and raising an eyebrow. Oooohhh, hide the women and children!)

Binker speculates that Lucas had enough material for two movies, not three, but felt he had to stretch it out to match the first -- er, second -- three. Hence we got Jar Jar Binks, and speechifying, and silly stuff about minichlorine or something. I buy that.

What I look forward to is the remakes, in twenty years or so, of all six movies. That is, of course, if the rights can be pried from Lucas' cold, dead hands. This might merit an act of Congress.

Fun with colors

The Pew Research Center for the People & the Press rightly thinks all this red-blue talk is silly. Take their test and find out your political persuasion.

No surprise here: I'm a "Liberal." I was hoping for "Bystander," but gosh darnit, I just vote too much.

My mom, however, who fancies herself a good conservative, found out somewhat to her surprise that she's an "Upbeat." Bad news, mom: that doesn't do much for your neverending pursuit of the title of Meanest Mom. I'll bet longtime title-holder Mrs. Bengston is a "Disaffected," or worse -- "Liberal."

W. Mark "Deep Throat" Felt, I salute you

So how cool is that? Not much I can say about it that someone else can't say better, since I wasn't alive when Watergate broke. And no sense in trying to overstate what Felt and the story he helped break meant to journalism and journalists everywhere (uh, a lot). But I sure read the book. And I sure have hoped, someday, somewhere, to have a source like W. Mark Felt. And it sure was cool to watch this story unfold today.

Let your dad have three glasses of wine tonight, Joan Felt. Here's hoping he's still with us enough to tell the story in his own words very soon.

Update: Bob Woodward's first-person account of his relationship with Throat is not to be missed. That's a book I'll want on my shelves -- in hardcover. The New York Times' account, amusingly, seems to drip with scorn for Woodward. And they quickly shunted it off the lead portion of their Web site. Why not? I mean, there was big news today, like a new SEC chief!

Double Update: I'm sympathetic to this line of reasoning. And I'm a little disappointed that the first live comment we see out of Mr. Felt himself appears to be this. I hope he kept Woodward-like records of his days as Deep Throat, because I'm despairing of ever hearing the story in his own words.

All hail our new Saturnian overlords

Titan has a 300-mile-wide infrared "bright spot" on its surface.

Now, I'm no scientist, but it's pretty clear that this can be nothing other than the heat from an underground alien metropolis.

F you, Lucas

I have successfully resisted going to see "Revenge of the Sith" (just doesn't have the same ring as "Return of the Jedi," no?) for its first weekend.

I've seen some good reviews. I've seen some not-so-good ones. The most important, however, came from a good friend, a ridiculous movie buff who also despised the first two movies. He reports -- as I suspected -- that as with the first two, the special effects ain't so special, the dialogue sucks and Hayden Christensen and Natalie Portman are terrible actors. (Hayden Christensen as Darth fucking Vader? Who's stupid idea was that?)

So, I don't care if it made $158.5 million so far. None of it was mine.

By popular request ...

... or at least by the request of one dude -- and yes, I found it annoying:

Total volume of music files on my computer: 9.85 GB, in 1,964 files. (All of them legally acquired, of course.)

Last CD I bought was: (together, via BMG) Bruce Springsteen, Born in the USA; David Bowie, Best of Bowie; The Doobie Brothers, Best of the Doobies; Weezer, self-titled (the green album).

Song playing right now: Well, let's see what Jenna randomly selects tonight ..."I Can't Stop It" by the Mighty Blue Kings. Goddamn I love this thing.

Five songs I listen to a lot lately, in no particular order:

• "Island In The Sun," Weezer
  
• "Under Pressure," David Bowie (with Queen)
  
• "Givin' Up The Nappy Dugout," Ice Cube
• "Ring of Fire," Social Distortion
• "Shut Up," Black Eyed Peas

Because I've always believed in killing chain letters, and yet have wound up pretty lucky in life nonetheless, I'm not bothering to suggest anyone else complete this exercise. Fascinating as it may be.

Happy birthday, pops

My dad, who turns 59 today, is like the far-right conservative conscience every left-leaning weenie journalist like myself ought to have. Just one of the reasons I love the guy.

Example: during the birthday phone call tonight, the conversation veers -- as it pretty much always does -- into politics. My dad is not a big fan of the State Department, it turns out. Colin Powell, he believes, was "co-opted" by all those conciliatory wusses at Foggy Bottom. Condi Rice hasn't shown herself to be much better, in dad's eyes.

"You know who'd be perfect for the job?" he says, and I can hear him grinning a mile wide on the other end of the phone.
"John Bolton," we say in unison, laughing.

Don't worry; only one of us was serious, and he doesn't write for an influential Washington news organization.

Correction: Mom notes that I forgot Dad's age. Gave him his year back accordingly.

Almost too ironic for words

Yeah, yeah, been a long time, I know. Life's been hectic, or something. But sometimes you read something that you just HAVE to blog about, even when your blog has stringent rules about commenting on people or issues you might encounter in your profession ....

So, with a minimum of commentary, I link to this report: "White House slams media role
in Quran furor." The lead is classic:

The White House said Tuesday that the U.S. image abroad had suffered irreparable damage from a now-retracted Newsweek article alleging that American interrogators at Guantanamo Bay desecrated the Quran, the Muslim holy book.

I mean, not to suggest that Newsweek didn't totally fuck up here, or that the media shouldn't seriously reconsider how we use anonymous sources. But was this incident worse than, hmm, I dunno -- a bunch of dipshit American soldiers stripping Iraqi prisoners naked, piling them into pyramids and pretending to wire their dicks to car batteries?

Journalism 101

Welcome to alexwayne.com's first-ever section of Journalism 101. Open your books to page one. Our first lesson, boys and girls, is news judgment.

News: Our military is stretched perilously thin.

Not news: A "runaway bride" who nobody knows wasn't killed.

Any questions?

If you don't like football, go away

Because it's time for the alexwayne.com NFL draft analysis.

Worst draft: Denver. With their first three picks, they took cornerbacks. Unless I missed something, they still have a fellow by the name of Champ Bailey on the roster. Two of the three weigh less than 190 pounds; none are taller than six feet. And then they pick Maurice Clarett in the third round. Even though he apparently spent his two years away from football doing nothing but eating ding-dongs and talking shit about Ohio State. Runner up: Detroit, everyone's pick for worst draft. Last thing they need is a third stud receiver on the roster, but they take Mike Williams at 10 anyway. Meanwhile, Detroit's running backs suck. There were three great running backs taken in the first five picks of this draft. Just about every team in the top five was trying to trade down. Hello? Second runner up: Every team with a crappy/questionable QB -- and there's too many to list, but starting with Tennessee and Arizona -- who passed on Aaron Rodgers, resulting in ...

Best draft: Green Bay. Drafting 24th, they get Brett Favre's successor in poor Aaron Rodgers, the Cal QB once projected to go number one. He only threw for about 5,500 yards and 43 touchdowns versus 13 interceptions in two seasons as the starter. Green Bay drafted 11 players total in seven rounds. I have no idea who most of them are, but who cares? Half of them can totally suck and it'll still be a great day. Runner up: Miami. Handily replaced Ricky Williams with Ronnie Brown, the best of Auburn's two stud backs. I'll be looking to pick him up late in my fantasy draft, come August. And then the Fins got my boy Channing Crowder in the third round. Crowder was Florida's stud middle linebacker last year; basically, he almost single-handedly made Ron Zook look less stupid. Then he foolishly decided to leave school early for the draft. I saw him projected to go in the mid-first round at one point; too bad for him, but good for Miami. Second runner up: Minnesota. Filled all kinds of needs. A possible replacement for Randy Moss? Check, in South Carolina burner Troy Williamson (Daunte Culpepper makes every other WR look good; why not this dude?) A couple of stud hogs for the defensive and offensive lines? Check, in Wisconsin's Erasmus James and Mississippi's Marcus Johnson. Another great-but-dumbass Florida player who thought he'd go in the first round? Check, in fourth-round RB pick Ciatrick Fason. When Crowder wasn't saving Zook's ass, Fason was.

Good lord, the fantasy football season can't come too soon...

Update: It was pointed out to me that the New York Jets didn't even have a draft pick until the second round, and with that pick they took a kicker. I may have anointed Denver the worst drafter too soon. Still, he was the best kicker in the draft ...

Next to stories about natural disasters and man-eating animals...

... I can't get enough stories about raging hemorrhagic fevers.

Also: I think this is the most dangerous assignment a journalist can undertake. Iraq is a cakewalk by comparison. If you're not in a situation where you have to worry about being sneezed on, you're a puss.

The usual memories

So I'm totally lazy and haven't posted jack or shit lately -- haven't even visited the site in quite a while -- but I'm idly checking comments today, and who the hell should show up but Will Morgan.

I can't tell you how huge this is.

Someday I'll scan all my old college photos into the computer and post an illustrative one here. The story of Will Morgan is best told visually. Mostly because I can't remember much of it. Something about a malt liquor party ... Will passed out on the lawn outside my apartment ... a legendary night of drinking shots of tequila and hot sauce that I only heard about ... none of us ever getting any chicks ... some disco parties ... Sugar Bowl, '97 ... so hazy.

And like that -- puff! -- he was gone. Underground. No one has ever seen him again. He becomes a myth, a spook story that drunks tell their kids at night. Rat on your pop, and Will Morgan will get you.

One of the year's greatest sporting events ...

... is upon us: The NFL draft.

Why is it so good? Readers love lists, so here's one:

1. Late April is otherwise a sports dead zone. What have we got -- Roidball (MBL), Thugball (NBA) and Arena Football. And unless it involves a congressional hearing or a brawl in the stands, I'd rather watch the latter. Oh, and we have golf. Oy.

2. Fan participation. In a scant four months, some of us nerds will be conducting exhaustive research in preparation for our own fantasy football drafts. This totally gets us in the mood. (Tough draft this year, but I'd take Auburn RB Ronnie Brown number one, were I SanFran. Braylon Edwards number two. Let the QBs fall to the 8-10 area, if you ask me.)

3. It weds together the two best professional sports leagues in America: the NFL and college football.

4. Excessive, ridiculously in-depth coverage. NFL writers otherwise are on long vacations. They come back for a few weeks and have nothing to do but write the occasional star-player-bitching-about-his-team story or draft profiles, draft predictions, draft analysis, and draft post-mortems. It's excellent.

San Francisco, you're on the clock.

Man do I hate George Lucas

He gets me every time. Creates an absolutely kick-ass trailer, then produces an absolutely wretched movie.

I know Episode III is going to reek. I know it. But this trailer has got me hooked.

I hate myself.

Making politics of coincidence

I expect Crazy Christians to be linking the deaths of Terri Schiavo and the Pope in 3 ... 2 ... 1 ...

Thank God they didn't both go on the same day, at least. My head would've popped with the insufferable comparisons.

Public service announcement

It's the beginning of tourist season here in the nation's capital -- or as I like to call it, the season of People Standing on Both F'ing Sides of Metro Escalators.

In the interest of defusing in advance potential nasty confrontations between us Blue-State snobs and you Red-State rubes visiting us, I offer this helpful advice: stand on the right.

It's just like driving back in your semi-developed wilderness of a home state. If you're a slow (i.e., bad) driver -- which, if you're standing on the left, I'd wager you almost certainly are -- you stay in the right lane. When you poke along in the left lane, the people behind you get upset.

We will generally ask you politely, once, to pardon us as we walk up or down the escalator. Failing that, we will demand that you move your fat, lazy Red-State asses to the right, and will push on by. If you are holding a conversation with your dipshit teenager, who is slouched on the left side of the escalator in ill-fitting, over-priced imitation hip-hop clothing, we will push between you and will attempt to deliver an elbow to his ribs in the process.

Thank you for your attention.

Sisters are useful

I'm not so good with remembering important dates. Or putting them in Outlook. Or even on a calendar. So it's nice to have a sister to keep track of these things for me.

I thought I would go ahead and remind you of the following important dates!

4/18/05 Mom & Dad Married 36 years

5/17/05 Dad's 59th birthday

5/8/05 Mother's Day

6/8/05 Mom's 58th birthday

6/19/05 Fathers Day

7/23/05 your very sweet and kind and wonderful sister's 28th birthday

She also conveniently reminds me that I have two years to plot my mother's 60th birthday embarassment. Mom thinks I might forget about it, and about what she did to mark my 30th birthday. Not with sis around.

Proof that exercise can kill you

Saturday was the finest Saturday we've had here in the Capital, temperature wise, since like October. So feeling industrious, and a little chubby, I threw on the running shoes and set out to make my first circuit of the National Mall since fall.

Pretty good run. Until I got hit by a car.

I'm in the home stretch, at 7th street heading east, waiting for the crosswalk light like a good pedestrian. Light turns to walk. I look right, look left, then look at my feet and take a big breath and launch myself into the crosswalk and out of the corner of my eye see an SUV that -- holy shit! -- isn't stopping.

Frequent readers will recall that the one thing I learned from snowboarding is how to fall, a lot, without hurting myself. Turned out to be a useful experience.

I turn toward the SUV, a dark green Chevy Blazer. It's slowed to maybe 10 or 15 mph by the time we make contact. My hands hit the hood, its bumper hits my shin, I spin to my right, out of the street, its bumper glances my other leg, and I land in a sort of crouch.

I'm not sure who's luckier -- me or the idiot driver. I wasn't hurt too bad -- a nasty bruise and scrapes on my shin. So I pick myself up, walk up to the driver's window (I'm pretty sure he almost kept going), and let fly with some profanity.

Guy says he's new to the country, didn't see the light, very sorry, blah blah. We go our separate ways; I didn't see much reason to get the cops involved.

The moral of the story: when you're on foot in D.C., jaywalk. It's safer.

Yeah, but...

Surely Seth Schiesel could have found a source or two who would speak to the benefits of a nation blanketed by open wireless networks? Speaking for myself, I look forward to the day when I can plop down in the neighborhood park, fire up my laptop, and get onto the Internet through whatever network happens to be convenient. And if that makes it more difficult for The Man to track what I'm doing online ... well, frankly, I consider that a nice little fringe benefit.

Next, on Fox: Introducing the I.F.O.C.M.E.!

If there's a news story I like better than the massive natural disaster variety, it's anything involving man-eating animals. I can't help myself -- I eat this stuff up. [insert rim shot, groan]

Speaking of, this thing is like the Takeru Kobayashi of man-eating animals.

I so wish this wasn't a congressional issue

I'm not nearly as free to speak publicly about what I think of the sad, sordid and ghoulish tale of Terri Schiavo as I would like. (Let's just say that I didn't find anything Michael Schiavo's lawyer said at his news conference yesterday to be at all outrageous.)

But pictures like this one scare me.

I see Christian fundamentalism on the rise in this country, influencing all sorts of public policy debates, and I wonder if it's not much less dangerous than the rise of Islamic fundamentalism elsewhere in the world. Fundamentalism is fundamentalism, no matter whom you pray to. It breeds ignorance and intolerance and it's incompatible with secular democracy.

Quite frankly, these people give Christianity a bad name. And if I were a Christian moderate -- is there such a thing anymore? -- I'd be pretty damn concerned, and I'd be pretty damn loud about it.

Point of clarification: While I can see how someone might draw the inference, I didn't intend to conflate some religious fanatics advocating for Congress to intervene in a family dispute with the 9/11 hijackers. I intended to conflate them with Creationists and Ann Coulter.

Mockery is the highest form of flattery

Something called "The Daily Howler" didn't think much of my performance on C-SPAN the other day. (And really doesn't think much, apparently, of the other reporter who was on the show.)

But hey, he or she calls me a "major journalist." That's pretty sweet.

I won't go back and watch the tape for myself right now, but just for the record: I have read the memo. I mean, it's not that long. Nor is it hard to find. But whatever.

A pundit is born

Well, that was fun. Early reviews indicate I didn't make a total ass of myself. Tim Russert, have your people call my people -- or, er, me. But look, folks: when I say "stump Alex Wayne," I'm joking. I don't have a damn clue how much fraud takes place in Social Security, or whether elderly immigrants fresh off the boat can collect from the program. Sheesh!

Careful observers will note that I am owed $1 ...

In that other sport...

For a football school, my alma mater didn't do too bad in the SEC tournament this year. David Lee, I'm sorry for all the times after those nine point, five rebound performances that I said you were a pussy. Matt Walsh, I'm sorry for all the times after those 5 for 15 nights that I called you inconsistent. Hell, you guys have been so hot the last month or so I might even pick you for the Final Four in my pool.* Elite Eight, anyway.

For what it's worth, my number one seeds:

Midwest: Illinois (duh)
South: Duke (best team in the ACC going into the tournament; won't make it to the FF)
East: Louisville (show up to play next time, Kentucky)
West: UNC (I'm not convinced Arizona is a great team; this one's for Sean May, who is a beast)

Florida deserves a three, I think. A two wouldn't be outrageous; anything worse than a four would be.

*Jedi mind shit for IRS readers: This isn't the gambling pool you're looking for. Move along.

Update: After predicting above that UNC would be in the FF, I foolishly let school spirit win the day when it came to picks for the pool. So of course Florida choked and is out early once again, while UNC is cruising to 20-point wins.

Stump Alex Wayne!

Think you know more than me about Social Security? Planning to get up early Monday morning with nothing to do? Then call into the C-SPAN show "Washington Journal" and take your best shot, chump!

I'll be appearing from 7:45 to 8:30 a.m. Don't think I'll be easy pickins: I won't be my usual over-caffeinated, slightly hungover, grumpy morning self. No sir. Because I have tips from a "Washington Journal" veteran:

1. Know where the cameras are and look at them when you talk to the caller, but turn slightly toward the host when you talk with her/him.

2. Wear a blue shirt - it looks better on camera - and a solid tie - red, blue, green, gold. Have a nice close shave in the a.m.

3. Okay, superficial stuff out of the way: Make yourself a list of bullet points on the stuff - simple, straightforward, 8th grade level bullet points that you want to make. Don't bring a stack of press releases or magazines because it'll just get in your way on the TV set - just two sheets of paper.

4. Also make a list of catchy sound bites like "social security has always been called the 'third rail' of politics, but this year everyone on Capitol Hill is dancing along that rail trying not to get electrocuted." Or some crap like that that SOUNDS good.

5. TALK SLOW but not for too long. Don't wander with your points or give a 2 minute answer.

6. CSPAN seems to like knowing who the key players are, so have a list of the 5 or 6 most important members of Congress and where they stand - that fills time and puts names into the mix.

Be yourself, don't drink too much coffee before hand because you'll be caffeinated and have to pee.

And if you think I'll be spending all weekend on the sound bites, you are correct, sir.

Wherefore art thou, Axl?

Damn you, Jeff Leeds, for having my dream beat: Guns N' Roses. (Thanks Lex.) Damn you, too, for being a better reporter and writer than me. What a great story. I particularly like how, per New York Times style, Axl is identified as "Mr. Rose" upon second reference.

Roy Peter Clark at this place called the Poynter Institute has this idea about writing: When you're doing long stories, you should sprinkle a few "gold coins" throughout the piece to keep readers hooked. For instance, when I came across this sentence...

He accompanied Buckethead on a jaunt to Disneyland when the guitarist was drifting toward quitting, several people involved recalled; then Buckethead announced he would be more comfortable working inside a chicken coop, so one was built for him in the studio, from wood planks and chicken wire.

... I laughed out loud. I just read it again and laughed again. And again.

Axl Rose unfortunately appears to be a megalomaniac. But if this album ever comes out, you know I'm going to be camping out at the record store.

Yeah, yeah ... I know

Yes, I've been slack. I'd tell you that I've been wrestling with big questions, like what do I want this blog to be. But I'd be lying. I'm satisfied with it being nothing. Truth is, I've been working my arse off and when I get home, about the last thing I feel like doing is a) thinking of something to write about and b) writing something. I've come to terms with the fact that I will never be prolific enough to be a great blogger. So should you.

The alexwayne.com Oscars review

Despite my best intentions, I found myself watching the Oscars Sunday. It's amazing what one will do to please a pretty girl.

Anyway, here's what I remember:

• The worst movie of the year won almost everything it was nominated for. Surprise, surprise: the Academy screws up again.
• Despite my best efforts at telepathy and telekinesis, Penelope Cruz and Salma Hayek did not make out on stage. I don't mind telling you: I was speechless during this segment. I have no idea what award they were presenting or what they were saying. All I know is, it was hot. All of it.
• There was some chick in the balcony during the presentation of that lifetime achievement award to that director dude who had a gi-normous rack, and who knew it. God bless her.
• The Chris Rock-filling-in-for-Catherine-Zeta-Jones with Adam Sandler bit was pretty funny.
• I had a choice, several weeks ago, between seeing "Hotel Rwanda" and the worst movie of the year. I chose poorly.

Not as hot as it sounds

A play in one act, based on actual events. Scene: a not uncrowded Metro platform on a Saturday afternoon much like this one. In fact, this one.

Loud dumb ugly girl: "So he's like, it's not 4:00 yet, and that's when we usually get started."
Dumb girl's friend: "Uhhuh?"
LDUG: "And so I'm like, well, I guess I'll just have to take care of myself."
DGF:
Alex : What the fuck?
LDUG: "And he's like, well, I guess I'll have to take care of myself, too!"
DGF:
LDUG: "And so he goes in the bathroom, and I'm like still in bed, and I kick off my panties..."
Alex : What the hell is wrong with people?
DGF: oooh!
LDUG: "... And he comes out of the bathroom, and I'm like, 'did you take care of yourself?' And he's like, 'sure I did,' and so I throw back the covers and I'm like 'too bad!'..."

Train arrives. Girls board last car. Alex goes out of his way to board second-to-last car. Close doors.

Things I've learned this week about transportation

I've had occasion to travel extensively -- for me at least -- for work this week. Herewith, I impart the wisdom I've gathered:

• Trains rock. Washington to Philly, via Baltimore and Wilmington, Del.: two hours, on the spot. No take-off, no landing, no grumpy stewardesses, no unexplained delays, no seats-so-skinny-the-fat-guy-next-to-you-is-in-your-lap, no security screening (this is only good until some asshole bombs a train, I suppose) and no traffic. Also, Amtrak's "quiet car" idea is worthy of a patent. Please please, FAA: never allow cell-phone use in airplanes.
  
• United sucks. I get up at 6 a.m. for a 9 a.m. flight out of Dulles (which also sucks, by the way -- in fact, it's worthy of a separate entry; see below). I fight traffic to the airport and lo and behold: my flight has been delayed by three hours. I make my way to the concourse. Hello, non-friendly United employee! Might you shed some light on why I got up ridiculously early for a noon flight? Crew delay, non-friendly United employee says. What's that, I say -- they slept late? I don't know, non-friendly United employee says; all I know is I'm here. Yes, so am I, I say. And the plane, when it gets there, is a turboprop. Is there any more frightening way to fly?
  
• Dulles blows. I always try to fly out of REAGAN National Airport (emphasis GOP's), and for good reason. Dulles is in the middle of nowhere. Metro doesn't reach it. A cab ride from D.C. costs $50. And the main highway leading to it is "high-occupancy vehicle only" during rush hour, meaning that if you're driving to the airport during afternoon rush or from it during morning rush, you can't use the most direct route unless you pick up a hitchhiker. It has five concourses, which are connected only by a series of shuttle buses, whose drivers like to take five-minute breaks between trips to flirt with coworkers. You've got a connecting flight in 20 minutes that's a concourse and 30 gates away? Hey, gimme a break, man -- I've got some tail on the line here! Finally, the concourse for United's "Express" (read: small planes and especially unfriendly staff) service is basically a metal shack. One bathroom with broken urinals serving 25 gates, poorly heated, and not even a Starbucks.
  
• Charleston, West Virginia is a nice town. Good steak house. Pretty mountains. Friendly people. Didn't encounter a single mountain-top coal mine or homosexual inbred rapist. Kind of scary airport, but with free wireless Internet. I could live there (the town, not the airport). Philly, maybe not so much.
  
  
  

So awesome words fail me, almost

I'd like to think that if I were about to die and happened to have a camera in my hand, I'd be able to do at least as well as John or Jackie Knill. But probably not, unless I were pretty drunk. Which, judging from the first picture, maybe they were.

What I learned from snowboarding

One can wipeout in spectacular ways, at high speeds, over and over again and yet suffer no permanent damage. It's even fun for a while.

Also: there is nothing better than a hot tub and a cold beer after a mountain kicks your ass.

If Eastwood's crap can win an Oscar, so can mine

I'm going skiing for the first time this weekend. Snowboarding, if you want to get technical about it. I am not the most coordinated of men. So best-case scenario, I figure, is that I don't break anything. Worst-case, I break my neck. In which case I want Jude Law to be cast as Alex Wayne in "Zero Dollar Gimp." An excerpt:

Paralyzed Alex: Don't let 'em take my leg, boss!
Stereotypically grizzled ski instructor (to be played by Ed
Harris): Hell, you don't need it anymore. Hey, that bedsore looks like Abraham Lincoln!

Olaf, berserker!

A super-cyclone named Olaf. Man is that cool. And he and girl cyclone Nancy might merge into a single "massively destructive storm." Oh, man. I need a little Alex time over here.

Old dumbness: Creationism

New hotness: "Intelligent Design."

Kansas, which distinguished itself a few years ago by erasing evolution from its textbooks, is back at it.

My favorite line from the story:

Harris says that in trying to understand how life began, science errs in refusing to look beyond natural explanations, to other explanations -- which, he acknowledged, some call "supernatural."

Some call it supernatural. As a reporter, if I hear that phrase in an interview, that's the point where I check my watch to see how close I am to deadline. Fun as they are, there's only so much time you can waste with nutjobs.

From the category of "Duh"

All of these people deserved to be fired, for being stupid if nothing else. Except for maybe the airline stewardess who posted photos of herself slutting it up in her stewardess outfit. That, I'm big enough to forgive.

You'll never have to scale, cut or gut again!

I've never bought anything I ever saw in an infomercial, but after watching some Aussie make salsa with this thing, man do I want it. Any job! In 10 seconds or LESS! And I'll bet it makes a mean bass, too!

Also, I'm told by a credible source that it shares its name with an appliance not at all intended for kitchen use. Except by you ladies who are into that sort of thing.

I don't get it

"Million Dollar Baby": Predictable, stereotypical, melodramatic, un-entertaining, seven Oscar nominations.

"Garden State": Unpredictable, refreshing, dramatic, funny, zero Oscar nominations. (But it did win the Florida Film Critics "Breakout" award. Alas, they also honored Hilary Swank for her work in MDB.)

"Shaun of the Dead": Best movie I saw all year, zero Oscar nominations. (And nothing from the Florida Film Critics, either.)

"77th Annual Academy Awards": What I won't be watching come Feb. 27.

"Jeff Gannon" needs a job

Except that his name's uh, not Jeff Gannon. And he has some kind of connection with some, hmm, oddly named Web sites.

My favorite passage from Howie Kurtz's story:

Several White House correspondents say they saw Gannon wearing what appeared to be a permanent White House pass with his picture and pseudonym -- legal names are generally required because of the Secret Service background check -- and that McClellan sometimes called on Gannon when he wanted a softer question. McClellan disputed this, saying he calls on reporters "row by row."

He also said Gannon did not have a permanent pass and was admitted on a day-to-day basis like many other journalists, adding that he does not meddle with the process on political grounds.

Now there are all sorts of fascinating and no doubt important ethical questions raised by this whole situation. But for me, this is the most important: I didn't know reporters could work under pseudonyms. So henceforth, I wish my byline to read: "Karl Hungus."

We even teach them football now

Oh, what the world has come to. Back in the day, reports a University of Florida researcher -- a researcher who happens to work for my mom, who happens to own her own archaeology firm, for God's sake -- the Spanish kept girls in their proper place:

“The main goal of childhood was to get children ready for their adult lives,” said Jamie Waters, who did the research for her thesis in anthropology at UF. “Parents and other adult family members were trying to socialize children in the skills they would need as adults, which for boys included reading and writing, and for girls was domestic crafts, such as pottery making, sewing, cooking and taking care of younger siblings.”

Maybe that's why the Spaniards conquered the New World, but we can't even manage two countries, huh? Huh?



Disclaimer: The above post is meant as entertainment only and does not reflect the editorial policy of alexwayne.com. Post should not be interpreted by certain parties as justification for the withholding of certain activities. All rights reserved. Actual researcher may not match photo. And yeah, the researcher is hot, in case you couldn't tell because of the magnifying glass.

Return of The Bulge

One of the more humorous election "scandals" we in the media covered last year, sort of, was the "controversy" over the mysterious bulge in President Bush's jacket during the first debate.

Let's set aside that there were all kinds of true scandals we in the media might have pursued during the election but did not, instead choosing to spend our limited resources vetting the candidates' records on a 30-year-old war.

Anyway, this won't make my left-wing friends happy: apparently the New York Times was set to publish an "October surprise"-type story on the bulge but killed it because editors decided it was incomplete and/or unfair.

Lex says that if true, New York Times executive editor Bill Keller ought to be fired. But I'm kind of on Keller's side on this one.

Seems that the killed story was based on the following sources: a NASA scientist with unclear political motives who had enhanced a photo and claimed the bulge was some kind of electronic device; a manufacturer of such devices who agreed with the scientist; and a third photo analyst who also said the bulge was a device.

That's a story, but I don't think it's the kind of bulletproof knock-out punch you run five days before the election. The missing information: administration or campaign sources or documents acknowledging that Bush was wired. Tough to get, maybe even impossible? Sure. But in my book, that's the bar that's got to be met for an October surprise.

For disaster addicts like me

Know when the next tsunami is on its way!

Safely not on my beat

I'm going to be frank: If you don't "believe" in evolution, you are a moron. And if you are a teacher in a school with evolution in the curriculum, yet you don't teach it, you are either a moron or a chickenshit.

Here's the quick alexwayne.com evolution-versus-Creationism primer:

Yes, evolution is a theory. So is gravity. Do you "believe" in gravity? Because "believe" it or not, no one has proved why gravity is what it is.

Creationism, on the other hand, is not a theory. It's a hypothesis. Key difference: It can't be tested. It's based on faith. Which is fine, for theology. For science, not so much.

Ah, the Creationist screams: Evolution can't be observed, and thus can't be tested! Wrong-o on both counts, dumbass. (Having read it in print, I assure you that the NatGeo article is worth finding or buying -- and that it concludes, without doubt, that the answer to its own headline is "no, you moron.")

So, to the scaredy-pants teachers: If your principal or superintendent frowns on teaching evolution, grow some goddamn sack and teach the hell out of it anyway. If they fire you, sue. The ACLU and countless other organizations, I am sure, will happily leap to your defense.

And to the teachers who don't "believe" in evolution: Might I suggest the clergy as a career?

I can't write a damn word...

... about this guy without violating a bunch of my rules for this blog and maybe getting myself fired.

Here's some totally factual context, though: To get a Congressional press credential, you have to file a two-page application with something called the Standing Committee of Correspondents, which is made up of journalists. In other words, journalists decide which journalists cover Congress. Rather than, say, the majority party.

Clint Eastwood, what have you done?!

Herewith begins the alexwayne.com campaign to derail the Oscar hopes of "Million Dollar Baby." Join with me; spread the gospel. This is a movie that sucks ass.

Clint baby, I love you to death. "High Plains Drifter;" one of my favorites. Everything with The Man With No Name; genre-defining. "Unforgiven;" deserved everything it got. I even love "Dirty Harry" and its sequels, and "In the Line of Fire" and "A Perfect World." But to tell you the truth, I haven't seen much of your work since, and maybe with good reason. This latest thing is just terrible.

Let's start with the title. Awful. It's got no ring, man. I wince to say it. And what's it mean? Is it describing the combination of Hillary Swank's medical bills and physical condition by the end of the flick? (Oh, by the way, if you haven't seen the movie, I'm going to spoil the whole goddamn thing for you. Consider it a public service; I'll save you a few bucks.)

Next, the characters. Every goddamn one of them a cliche. Grizzled old-school trainer. Washed-up almost-champ sidekick (Morgan Freeman, basically reprising his role from the far, far superior "Shawshank Redemption" -- complete with Morgan Freeman narration, for Christ's sake). Hopeful hick-chick boxer with a family that came out of central casting's definition of "white trash." Trailer park? Check. Tatoos? Check. Welfare mother? Check. No redeeming virtues whatsoever? Check.

Then the dialogue. Swank's character has this habit of calling Eastwood's character "boss." Didn't bother me until we got to this line: "They took my leg, boss." I think I wasn't supposed to laugh.

The plot, in short (and trust me, short is all you want): Eastwood loses his stud boxer to a rival manager. Swank pleads and pleads -- in her stupid, totally affected "southern" accent -- and proves herself to be a really, really hard worker and finally convinces Eastwood to train her. She of course turns out to be an awesome boxer -- knocks everybody out in the first round. Then she fights the Russian champ -- er, sorry, the German champ -- who kills her former-rival-turned-best-friend -- wait, I'm mixing up my boxing movies again -- who sucker-punches her and breaks her neck. Yeah, it's cheery. We spend the rest of the movie, some 45 of the most excruciating minutes of my life, watching Swank play a quadriplegic, plead with Eastwood to kill her, smoke out her straight-out-of-central-casting family's attempt to rip her off, and finally bite her own tongue off. No joke. Mercifully, Eastwood eventually kills her and puts an end to things.

Lots of people seem to think that this is some kind of great movie. Sports Illustrated called it the best boxing movie ever. Sure, if you hate boxing. And all of a sudden it's eclipsing "Sideways," a movie that I enjoyed but didn't really think was worth a Best Picture Oscar -- until I realized that this clunker is its opposition.

So take to the streets, loyal alexwayne.com readers, lest we suffer yet another "Forrest Gump."

Impulse-Buy Sunday!

So I bought an iPod today.

I've named it Jenna, after the porn star, because just looking at it, just handling it -- no, caressing it -- no, her -- makes me want to make sweet love to it. Her.

It's been said a thousand times over that Apple committed a masterstroke of design with this thing. But seriously: no machine that I've ever encountered in my life has so ... aroused me as the iPod. The perfection of its weight and size, the off-white plastic on polished aluminum and most of all, the intoxicating clickwheel. Oh man. It can't charge fast enough.

By the way: I'm no investment expert, but I'd suggest Apple stock at any price. I'm a PC guy, always have been. The iPod might convert me.

It's all in how you sell it

People who've been on them tell me they're fun, but I've never really seen the appeal of a cruise.

For one, I don't much like being around lots and lots of other tourists -- they tend to remind me how disgustingly fat this country has become. Nor do I like the idea of sleeping in a windowless room beneath the surface of the ocean, the only way the things approach affordability. Nor does it seem like a lot of fun to ride around for a week on what, in essence, is a floating monopoly, where you get screwed on everything but the free food -- and so all the fat tourists feel compelled to gorge themselves as often as possible.

So I think cruise lines should bill Norwalk virus as an amenity.

Are you a disgustingly fat American? Do you want to lounge around in the sun, ignore our gym, stuff yourself with free food, drink as much of our overpriced booze as you can suck down and do it all worry-free? Well you can! Because on the good ship Petri Dish, the passengers you can't see will have you puking and shitting out all those excess pounds inside a week!

Bon voyage!

Not that I own any, of course...

... but does this mean I can wear assless leather pants to the next presidential news conference?

Sarcasm is not beneath the U.S. Congress

Rep. Jerrold Nadler, D-N.Y., weighs in on the SpongeBob SquarePants controversy.

On snow and football

For my money, there's not much better than watching football played in snow -- except playing football in snow.

Washington just got socked with a little winter storm, leaving us with a six to eight inch blanket that makes things a bit inconvenient but is otherwise a delight. I got up at 9 this morning -- a rare, rare happenstance for a Saturday -- and played some four-on-four football as the snow started to fall. Sure, I jammed my thumb a bit, and yeah, I'm going to pay for the experience in muscle pain for the next week. But there's no activity I can think of suitable for a family-friendly blog (meaning my family, who have apparently started reading this) that's more invigorating.

Mom says I'm crazy. She just wishes she wasn't living in sunny, 64-degree Florida.