Pop culture recommendation of the week -- er, month. Or year. Whatever

Jericho.

I'm a sucker for post-apocalypse stories. Did a book report on The Stand in high school; loved the Fallout series of games; can't get enough plagues, alien invasions and zombies in my pop-culture diet.

And I generally consider CBS the geezer network, so it's a surprise that CBS, of all networks, would do post-apocalypse so well. Of course, when George Hearst is your lead actor, it's hard to go wrong.

Anyhow, they're about to wrap up the first season of Jericho, and it's a nail-biter. What could be better than two small Kansas towns going to war with each other after 24 American cities have been nuked by terrorists and the government has collapsed? Nothing, that's what.

Please watch, because otherwise CBS is probably going to cancel it.

Update: (Caution, spoiler ahead.) They killed off McRaney. I understand how his character's death advances the plot, but jeez, he was by far the strongest actor on the show. Not sure that was the best way to go.

This guy needs his ass kicked

I might make a regular feature of this on alexwayne.com (promises, promises.), because there's just so many stories like this one.

Jason Wahler, whose claim to fame is the absolutely dreadful MTV show "Laguna Beach: The Real Orange County," needs his ass kicked. (I tried to watch the show, once, but gave up after about five minutes -- even though pretty much all the girls were in bikinis -- because I couldn't understand what the fuck the kids were talking about. It was like they were speaking a foreign language. God I'm old.)

I mean, just look at this guy. Even if he weren't an asshole -- and he is most definitely that -- he'd need his ass kicked.*


*To be fair, this would've been applicable to the author at 20 years of age, too.

Read this story

One of the most entertaining writers at the Washington Post convinced a famous and brilliant classical violinist to take his Stradivarius and set up shop at a Metro station during rush hour, incognito and unannounced, just to see what happened.

I'd like to think that I would have stopped, but I'm not sure. It's an amazing story -- at turns depressing and uplifting and surprising. The video clips are cool, too (the violinist, Josh Bell, is amazing). I suspect the story will win a Pulitzer next year. The writer said in an online chat that he's received more than 1,000 e-mails from all over the world, and more than 100 people told him the story made them cry, a response that surprised him.

I can't quite put my finger on why someone might cry over the story, or whether they would be tears of joy or sadness or both, but somehow I understand that they could. I didn't, of course, being a big tough guy and all, but the story kind of left a lump in my throat. Again, not sure why.

I was going to send out a blast e-mail to a bunch of people about it but then I remembered, hey, I've got a blog.

Do not tease Joakim Noah

This is what happens in my office when you hate on the leader of the greatest college basketball team since Bill Walton's Bruins.

My college is better than yours at men's sports

Hey, I have a blog. And my alma mater is winning national championships left and right. I should say something about that. Or better yet, post a picture of me abusing a friend of mine who happens to be an Ohio State fan at halftime of last month's game.



That works nicely. Go Gators!

John Mellencamp is a whore

I say that because his damn song, "Our Country," is getting played during every commercial break of Sunday night football tonight, and it's driving me crazy.

But seriously, letting Chevrolet sell trucks using your treacly, faux-patriotic "rock" diddy? Whore.

Self-promotion

I'll be on C-SPAN at the cruel and unusual time of 9 am Saturday to talk about student loans, of all things. It's a live call-in show, so, you know, harass me if you want.

This month's post....

Is about Las Vegas, which I just visited. Entirely pleasure, no business.

The airline: American. Better seats than Delta, at least -- and I saw that big crater in the Arizona desert on the way there. Cool. Hottie stewardess ("Doris") on the way back; too bad I was catatonic.

The hotel: Luxor. The whole pyramid thing is starting to feel dated, and it's obviously appealing to your lower class of Vegas visitor. Like, well, myself. But the pool's great and you can't beat the blackjack, where it's never hard to find a $10 table for you and at least one or two of your buddies and late surrender is allowed.

The food, in order: Sam Adams beer place at Reagan airport (good fries and beer); Bellagio dinner buffet (excellent); Luxor lunch buffet (not excellent); Fatburger (not bad for slow fast food, one cabbie says In-N-Out is better); Luxor breakfast buffet (a little gross); Chin-Chin at the NY-NY (very good Singapore noodles); Chili's at the St. Louis airport (I wanted to sleep).

The drinking, from what I can remember: Nefertiti's Lounge at Luxor (surly waitresses, way overpriced imitation Red Bull and vodka); Island Lounge at Mandalay Bay (hilarious band, equally hilarious prostitutes, silly drunk girl trying to score); $1 beer at O'Shea's casino (terrible blackjack rules -- to be avoided); the Wynn sportsbook (awesome place to watch a game); Ghostbar at The Palms casino (either the greatest or second-greatest bar ever, as I told the cabaret dancer; no celebrity sightings); back to Mandalay Bay (more prostitutes and bachelorette parties, and no, I didn't); margaritas and Coronas and Patron shots at the Luxor pool; nap time; back on the vodka tonic train at Chin-Chin; Mandalay Bay again, after winning $100 at blackjack.

The gambling: Couple quick points -- never play craps unless you have a shitload to spend; video poker is a stupid but easy and inexpensive way to kill a half-hour and $20; blackjack is my game. Linda at the Wynn kicked ass, even though she took my money, and so did Donald at Luxor, who didn't.

Pics to come.

P.S. -- My buddy Ben has completed a much more detailed and amusing report on the weekend's activities, which I post with his permission, sans his last name, because apparently he's got enemies who would use his reckless gambling and drinking against him ...

Subject: Vegas: An Appreciation

We all had our moments. Alex almost became a pedophile in the pool, Ben discovered names for his fantasy football team and his first-born son, Rommie redefined what it means to pack light, Emily took Rommie to meet the Muppets, Ryan managed to dance with a woman named Alex, and Dan opened our eyes to the joys of monorail.

I had to write this down. I want to remember it. I want to re-live it. I want to be at a blackjack table right now. Has it already been a week since the trip began?

What follows is a recap of our adventure. Follow along if you like. We will be doing this again.

Thursday:
_ Noon. DC crew meets at Reagan Airport. Ryan declares he's not making any decisions on this trip. Alex says he can only deal with Vegas every 3 to 5 years.

_ 6:15 p.m. Vegas time. We check in at The Luxor. Rommie shows up in a plaid-shirt/khaki pant combo. We would all come to know it very well.

_ 7 p.m. The much hyped Bellagio buffet does not disappoint. Alex "four plates" Wayne, Ryan and Dan all enjoy the good eats but fail to give props to [Ben] for suggesting the idea 27 times. Ben does not get pissed until Dan beats him to the only bathroom stall in the restaurant.

_ 9:30 p.m. Neffertitis time. Rommie tries to sing Ben the "thong song" but fails to connect when all he does is shout, "Thong! Thong!" Ryan starts itching to gamble and struggles to avoid leading a charge to the casino. "I'm not making any decisions on this trip," he reminds us.

_ 10:33 p.m. The first round of gambling at the Luxor. Ben splits a pair of nines, then splits again when he gets a third nine. Dealer slaps down three glorious face cards in a row - 19, 19, 19. Ben is feeling it. Then dealer draws to a 20. A new name for all things bad is born: Triple 19 Ass Fuck.

_ 11:44 p.m. Emily inexplicably heads to bed after being up all day and night, ensuring her fate as the woman who always misses the good shit at Mandalay Bay. A drunken woman named Alex asks Ben, "Who did you vote for?" Annoyed, Ben passes her off to our man Alex, who makes up shit about being a gay Canadian, and Ryan, who becomes her dance partner -- twice. We all watch as a band member dances and pumps his right arm like Milli Vanilli in epileptic shock.

_ 2:45 a.m. Back at the Luxor, Ben hits a long lucky streak at roulette, erasing an early $160 deficit. Then he cleans up at blackjack, pocketing a tidy $320 profit. In his 7th trip to Vegas since 1999, he remembers that Vegas has a way of taking a punch and coming back fighting before the weekend is out. Ben chooses to ignore this and thinks he owns the town.

Friday:
_ Noon. We make it just in time for the breakfast buffet to miss breakfast.

_ 1:22 p.m. Ben considers buying an ugly $177 orange tie-dyed shirt to go clubbing at Ghost Bar. "There's always a first time," the salesman woos. The group wisely talks Ben out of it, leading him over to Urban Outfitters, where he settles for a $10 pink shirt like a Rhinestone Cowboy. Alex finds a flask that says, "What wouldn't Jesus do." He decides may 3 to 5 years is too long to wait for his next Vegas trip.

_ 2:26 p.m. We head off for a tour of the Strip. In 94 degree heat, Rommie shows up in the plaid shirt and khakis, saying he hadn't thought to bring shorts to a trip to the desert. Dan, in a precursor of monorail things to come, takes us on a misguided search for the MGM sportsbook. We head to a pit of a place called O'Sheas, looking for midgets who pour shots down your mouth. Instead, we see Ryan's spirits lift when he wins by listening to Dan and letting it ride on black.


_ A strange period of time ensues. We travel by the Dan Walter monorail south on the Strip to head north to the Wynn, where we take a shuttle to get in. Emily looks at a tired Rommie and declares, "He doesn't do well on vacations."

_ 4 p.m. The female dealer pegs Rommie for a software accountant. When told what Rommie really does, she takes one look at him and says "An entertainment reporter? YOU?"

_ 4:22 p.m. A jolly man from Southern California joins the table and wins big. Ryan takes a picture and dubs him "San Diego Splits."

_ 6 p.m. Ben, Ryan, Dan and Alex watch the end of the Pistons-Cavs game in the epic Wynn sports book. The basketball quickly becomes an afterthought to the sublime, leggy cocktail waitress. Dan aptly points out that it is hard to no where to look at her first. Ryan insists the waitress is too good looking to even exist.

_ 6:04 p.m. Ryan reminds us he isn't making any decisions on this trip.

_ 7 p.m. Nancy the cab driver takes us on the fatburger express. Someone asks what the thing is we're passing. "That's supposed to be a projector," she said. "I ain't seen it project shit."

_ 7:08 p.m. Nancy rides up on the ass of a wimpy Prius driver from California, who responds by meekly flipping us the bar. Alex, with gusto, flips him back. Nancy pleads with us to make sure Fatburger does not give us any precooked patties. "Tell them to make it fresh! FRESH!"

_ 8:14 p.m. Dan falls in love with their free sample of Coke Blak on the walk back to the Luxor. Alex, with a Red Bull in his other hand, does the same. Caffeine + Caffeine = Good.

_ 9:22 p.m. One cab to the Ghost Bar gets there in minutes. The other, containing Ryan, Dan and Ben, gets stuck in hellish traffic on the Strip. Ryan challenges the cab driver's decision-making, drawing only mutters and silence. In Ryan's mind, if he were making decisions, we would have been there by now.

_ 9:33: Ben's efforts to get on this lGhost Bar list, via Dave Austin and Dan, pay off. Sort of. We are ordered to wait in an embarrassing holding pen of red plastic rope lines. A mutiny starts. Ben, at the front of the line, starts feeling the heat from his buddies. He eagerly offers his ID, some paperwork, whatever will get the bouncer's attention. He is ignored.

_ 9:45: Bouncer lets us in. "This is only to jump the line," he warns. "You still have to pay."

_ 9:53 p.m. We're in. We like it. We would soon love it. The drinks flow. The shots arrive. The view is grand. The women dance with themselves in ways we should have to pay for. Emily takes pictures. Dan likes the music. Ben decides to name his first son Ghost Bar. "We'll call him Goby," Ryan says. Alex asks a Cabaret dancer if this is the best bar ever or the second best bar ever. This makes no sense to her but she still warms to him. Ghost Bar lives on forever.

_ Midnight. Seeking change of venue, for some reason, we cab over to the Mandalay Bay. It is not as good as the night before, but at least Emily is with us this time, until she and Rommie go their own way for what they describe as room service. We are drunk. We try another bar. Alex checks out the Cougars.

_ 12:43 a.m. Ben loses money at blackjack at the Luxor. His friends seem to keep winning. Ben gets a little jealous. He is so tired that he falls asleep during the middle of a hand. Showing unusual maturity, he calls it a night and heads off. To a roulette table. He loses more money.

Saturday:

_ 10:45 a.m. We make the buffet in time for breakfast. Under repeated questioning, Rommie cracks and admits that the show he is going to with his wife on Friday night involves puppets. We mock him. Emily comes to his defense. "It's supposed to be riotously funny," she says.

_ 11:23 a.m. Ryan clarifies that he is allowed to make decisions for himself on the trip, just nothing that affects the entire group.

_ 11:58 a.m. Alex, Dan, Rommie and Ben go to the MGM Grand sports book and make fun of the oddsmakers for giving the Cavs nine points against the Pistons. Three of us put money on this. The Pistons would end up winning by 18 or so. Vegas quietly laughs at us.

_ 12:14 p.m. The fearsome foursome heads off on a long, hot search for the perfect blackjack table. No room at Paris. No affordable tables at the Venetian. We finally find it _ exactly where we started, the Luxor. We are so excited to see empty seats at a $10 table that we don't notice Rommie is already sitting there.

_ 12:15 p.m. Ben asks Rommie why he is wearing a "Luxor Las Vegas" T-shirt. "As we've established," Rommie says, "I packed too light."

_ 12:42 p.m. Ryan snaps at Alex for asking questions during a round of craps. Alex employs the guys' method of conflict resolution: Whatever, dude.

_ 2 p.m. The crew, sans Rommie, is all at the pool. Ben asks why we have a three-hour layover in St. Louis the next day. Dan and Ben begin debating how we could spend the time. This somehow ends up with plans for Emily to get an associate's degree in truck driving. We are all deliriously overtired.

_ 2:38 p.m. Emily gets the hiccups. Alex says he can help. He encourages her to ignore all distractions, including the hot women leaning against the edge of the pool. Noticing that a girl nearby heard him, Alex says, "Not you. You're just a kid."

_ 3 p.m. Ben waits in the line to get drinks at the pool. A chatty guy tells him that Barboro broke his leg in the horse race that day. "Is he going to have to be killed?" Ben asks. Dumbfounded, the guy says, "I'm not a vet."

_ 8:10 p.m. The DC crews gets Chinese food at New York, New York. Full of noodles and no sleep, Ben decides to take a nap before.

_ 9:18 p.m. Alex snaps at Ben for not coordinating his nap schedule. The whatever dude defense works well again.

_ Midnight: Ben wakes up so he can downstairs and lose for a final time in blackjack. Emily shows up. Asked about the quality of the puppet show, she says, "It was riotously funny, or whatever."

_ 2 a.m. The men go back to Mandalay for the last time. They see a fight outside the House of Blues. It never really seems to end. Unfortunately, the trip does.

_ 4:11 a.m. DC guys take a cab to the airport. The cab driver tells us a vivid story about a woman servicing a guy in his backseat. Asked several times if he has cleaned the seat since then, he finally says, "It's been cleaned up by the asses of the last 50 people who sat back there."


_ 4:38 a.m. We wait for our 6 a.m. flight home. Alex goes successfully hunting for a screwdriver. He comes back with a double. He begins plotting a trip to Vegas for a football weekend this fall.

_ 4:40 a.m. There is nothing left to stay. Still, Ryan comes up with this gem: "I like Rommie's hair."

I wish I were in Gainesville tonight

My football-school alma mater just won the NCAA national basketball championship.

My hometown is gonna burn.

I'm stone sober.

This ain't right. And yet it's so very right.

For fellow Gator fans' entertainment: the national championship game discussion thread at Fark. My favorite line:

UCLA wins "most made to look like girly-men in a final" award

Directions to the House of Laughter

My good friends Matt and Nancy Cravey just had a baby, which they named Isaac even though they're not Jewish. They are funny, however, so there you go.

Check out the adventures of the helmet-headed child at Matt's blog.

Since Hamlet, anyway

I don't know much about this ridiculous controversy over these Muhammad cartoons, but I do have this question: Who figured that they could prove Islam is a peaceful religion by burning down an embassy?

Oh, and also: Is this Denmark's 15 minutes of fame? Discuss.

Sticking up for James Frey

Yeah, he's a lying jerk, but this is just stupid.

Now I'm just a simple caveman reporter, and all your modern ways confuse and frighten me. But don't plaintiffs have to prove, like, damages, to win lawsuits in this country?

Sorry you've got to pay a lawyer to get this silliness dismissed, Mr. Freyed. I suspect life's bad enough as is for you right now.

Disclosure

I deleted a recent post. No one asked me to do it, but a friend suggested it might be a good idea. I decided the friend's advice was sound.

Now playing on my computer

Battlestar Galactica. Another one of those shows I hope doesn't get cancelled because of my neglect.

I remember it, vaguely, as a super-cheesy, late '70s Star Trek/Star Wars knock-off. And I guess as the inspiration for the name of the best coffee in the world.

But this dude Ronald D. Moore took that old, crappy show as inspiration to create the best sci-fi series on television today -- by far -- and one of the best dramas. It's like the West Wing in space, with better writing and acting and the best CG effects I've seen on TV (better effects, in fact, than a lot of movies). Puts to shame shit like Andromeda and Stargate: SG-1 (yeah, I love MacGyver, too, but that show absolutely sucks).

Anyway, BG is recommended, if that's not obvious. I'm working my way through the first season, courtesy of iTunes...

Oprah is my new hero

I haven't seen the show. But from all accounts I've read, Oprah Winfrey apparently made like an Abu Ghraib interrogator on James Frey and got the little bitch to confess to lying, straight up. Not only that, he admitted that The Smoking Gun report on his "memoir" was accurate and that the reporters "did a good job." This, after his lawyer had threatened to sue them.

(Aside: Remember what I said about threats to sue. Next time you see anything like it in any news story, assume that the party "threatening to sue" is guilty of whatever they're alleged to have done.)

My favorite graf from the AP account:

Winfrey, whose apparent indifference to the memoir’s accuracy led to intense criticism, including angry e-mails on her Web site, subjected Frey to a virtual page-by-page interrogation. No longer, as she did last week, was she saying that emotional truth mattered more than the facts. “Mr. Bravado Tough Guy,” she mockingly called the author whose book she had enshrined last fall and whose reputation she had saved last week.

You go, Ms. Winfrey.

Maybe I should give Frey some credit for finally fessing up, and on national television, no less. But I don't think so. This comes only after weeks of either silence or utter bullshit from him and his publisher. Only when Oprah finally dragged him back onto her show -- probably by threatening to revoke her endorsement of his book otherwise -- did he give it up.

(Aside: Frey's site, bigjimindustries.com, wasn't password-protected as of a couple weeks ago, when I went looking to see what he had to say. Interesting.)

Oprah, on the other hand ... wow. It's not a small thing to weigh the evidence, consider the facts and decide that your earlier position on an issue was incorrect -- and then publicly admit that you were wrong. That takes a big person. Just consider how often it happens in Washington.

Really a stunning turn of events. I saw a promo last night for Oprah's show today where she said she'd be talking to James Frey and his publisher again. I figured, more apologists massaging the fuckhead's ego. I wonder if he was as surprised as I was to find out exactly how the conversation would go.

And from what I've read, Oprah asked really good questions. I mean, if this whole talk-show thing doesn't work out for her, I think she has a future in investigative reporting:

"We asked if you, your company, stood behind James's book as a work of nonfiction at the time, and they said absolutely," Ms. Winfrey said (to Nan Talese, Frey's publisher). "And they were also asked if their legal department had checked out the book, and they said yes. So in a press release sent out for the book in 2004 by your company, the book was described as brutally honest and an altering look at — at addiction. So how can you say that if you haven't checked it to be sure?"

Ms. Talese replied (according to the New York Times) that while the Random House legal department checks nonfiction books to make sure that no one is defamed or libeled, it does not check the truth of the assertions made in a book.

Ms. Winfrey replied, "Well, that needs to change."

So that's a nice denouement for this whole sorry episode. Unfortunately, I suspect this will only result in more book sales for Frey, and more fabricated "memoirs" from the publishing world.

Although the AP reports that Frey's publisher is now hanging him out to dry...

Frey’s career will likely never recover, although so far he has not suffered for sales. His book, a million seller thanks to Winfrey, remained in the top 5 Thursday on Amazon.com. A second memoir, “My Friend Leonard,” was in the top 20.

He must still answer to his current publisher, Riverhead Books, an imprint of Penguin Group USA. In a statement Thursday, the publisher said there “very serious issues” with “My Friend Leonard,” which refers to the jail term he never served, and “we are treating them that way.” Regarding his recent two-book deal, Riverhead said, “The ground has shifted. It’s under discussion.” A novel is scheduled to come out in 2007.

You know your reputation's in the shitter...

... When an occasionally funny comic strip is making fun of you. (Thanks, Mom.)

In other news, the New York Times is picking up where The Smoking Gun left off at revealing James Frey as a total ass-clown and liar.

Frey's enabling publishers, in response, offer up a pair of "witnesses" to The Times to vouch for the book. Some unsolicited public relations advice for Random House: in the future, you might want to run a cursory background check on your "witnesses" and, hell, I don't know, ask them a question or two before tossing them to The New York Friggin' Times.

One is a Louisiana state judge who is about to be sentenced to up to 20 years in prison for mail fraud. The other is some dude named "Richard" who refuses to give the Times his last name. And even these two sterling sources can't confirm specific events Frey described.

I've been called out...

... by Lex. Probably because I haven't been posting often enough. Reminds me of once upon a time when I worked for the guy .... [shiver]

So, five odd things about me that I don't mind posting on a blog occasionally read by strangers, sources and co-workers. This ought to be some great reading.

1. I save all of the notebooks, documents, trinkets and other junk I've ever produced at every newsroom I've ever worked in three big plastic crates stacked in a closet. I call it the Wayne Archives. Why? For my memoirs, of course.

2. I know that I will never read any of that shit ever again and it will all probably burn up in a house fire or disintegrate from old age. I like having it anyway.

3. I incessantly twist and pull at my bangs when I'm deep in thought. I'm doing it right now. I fear I'm losing my hair because of it.

4. I used to incessantly pick and chew all of my fingernails down to the pink. I quit doing that cold turkey one day when I was 20. That's about when I started the hair thing.

5. I don't like to think of how many hours of my life I have lost to video games.

I don't know five active bloggers, off-hand, that I would sic this upon. So instead, if you're one of my five daily readers and you have a blog, consider yourself tagged.

Book publishers are worse than journalists!

The New York Times reports that James Frey's publisher has issued a statement about its author's fabricated and deceitful memoir:

"Recent accusations against him notwithstanding, the power of the overall reading experience is such that the book remains a deeply inspiring and redemptive story for millions of readers."

Wrong. So wrong. The power of Frey's book stemmed entirely from its supposed truth. Without truth, it's a story about a fictional thug who goes into rehab and rejects 12-step therapy. That might be an interesting story, but not an inspiring or redemptive one -- and, I suspect, not one that would sell 3.5 million copies.

Here's the difference between book publishers and publishers of journalism. Had Frey worked for a newspaper, something like this would have happened in the wake of The Smoking Gun article:

• Frey would have been put on paid leave.
• The paper would launch its own investigation of his work.
• Frey would be required to co-operate, and if he didn't, he'd be fired.
• There'd be some kind of editor's note published, acknowledging the accusations against Frey and announcing the paper's investigation.
  
• The paper, no doubt, would quickly find that The Smoking Gun's report is accurate.
• The paper would publish a lengthy correction of the story, or perhaps, given the extent of the fabrications, just retract the thing altogether. Frey would be fired.
• The paper would publish a lengthy story detailing its investigation of its own writer and analyzing what went wrong. Editors might resign or be fired.
  
• The larger journalism community would be a-twitter, with independent analysis, investigation and criticism.

But in the book publishing world? We get Doubleday's spokesidiot telling The Times, "This is not a matter we deem necessary for us to investigate."

In other words: "We got your money already, so screw you."

Update (a couple days late): Lying is okay with Oprah.

Double update: Scary. Michelle Malkin and I agree on something.

Triple-dog update: Seth Mnookin, who says he was a legit junkie, tears apart Frey and his crappy book. I'm starting to wonder why I liked it in the first place. The excerpts Mnookin cites are pretty terrible writing.

Too easy

D.C. councilmember Marion Barry apparently doesn't merit the "former crackhead mayor" title I've assigned him.

Turns out that there's nothing "former" about the crackhead part.

This would be really, really funny if it wasn't so very sad. Only in the District of Columbia ...

Thoughts on Lost: Whoa

I spent last weekend holed up in my apartment with beer, popcorn, Chinese food, my new coffee grinder, and the first-season DVDs of the television show Lost.

I'm not good about watching TV. There are a lot of shows I like -- Nip/Tuck, The Shield, Arrested Development, Family Guy, The Simpsons, Scrubs ... the list goes on. But I don't watch any of them regularly. I just forget. I'm a bad TV fan, I guess -- Arrested Development, a great show, is probably gonna get canceled because of people like me.

So in summer 2004, I started seeing these previews of this Lost show. Endless clips of Dominic Monaghan saying, "Guys. Where are we?" And something about a plane crash on a desert island inhabited by a monster. Sounds stupid, I thought. I didn't watch.

So yeah. Turns out it's not so bad. In fact, it's friggin' genius. In fact, I watched all 25 episodes in a row over two nights and two days -- broken up by occasional eating and sleeping and football -- and woke up Monday morning wanting more. The episode where Sawyer tells Jack about meeting Jack's dad in the bar nearly choked me up. Movies rarely nearly choke me up. Television shows never nearly choke me up.

How did this show not sweep the Emmys this year? How did Terry O'Quinn not win a damn thing? I mean, I love William Shatner, don't get me wrong, but his work in Boston Legal couldn't possibly have outshadowed John Locke.

Also, it has the best-looking female cast of any current show. Emilie de Ravin (especially sans prosthetic tummy), Yoon jin-Kim, Evangeline Lilly, Michelle Rodriguez, Cynthia Watros, Kimberly Joseph -- I love you all. Though de Ravin could cut back on the hysterical screaming.

I watched the season premier this year, but otherwise missed pretty much every episode. Which had me pretty glum this week ... until a friend told me that I could download them and watch them, for $2 a piece, from iTunes.

That, friends and neighbors, is one sweetheart of a deal. God bless you, Steve Jobs. I'm off to watch season two, episode eight: "Collision."

Update: Damnit all, the reunification of Bernard and Rose nearly choked me up again! (Alright, DID choke me up!)

The District of Columbia sucks

Not only is this city not safe for former crackhead mayors; it's apparently just as dangerous for respected journalists.

Last year, I covered the Social Security debate here in the Capitol, so David Rosenbaum and I would occasionally find ourselves covering the same news conferences, staking out the same secret meetings, chasing the same senators down hallways, that sort of thing.

For a decorated journalist working for the most influential publication in the land, Rosenbaum was a remarkably nice guy. The first time we wound up hanging out together outside a secret meeting, he introduced himself to me. Turned out he had once worked for my current employer, so he shared some stories and told me how much he respected our work.

One day in the summer, a couple of congressmen called a news conference to announce a Social Security bill. The studio the House of Representatives has built for news conferences is way too small, so there were probably 30 of us, plus cameras and what-not, stuffed into the room. The congressmen were running late. Five minutes went by, then 10, then 15 -- no congressmen.

So all of a sudden, Rosenbaum I guess decides that he has had it. From the back of the room, he yells at one of the congressmen's flacks: Where is your boss? He's running late, she says. We don't have time for this, he tells her. She goes scurrying out of the room, then pops back in. He's right outside, talking to another member, she reports. Get him in here! Rosenbaum barks.

God bless Rosenbaum for having the temerity to voice the frustration we all felt. Needless to say, Mr. Congressman hurried into the room and got things underway.

I wish I'd gotten to know Rosenbaum better. Rest in peace, sir.

Update: Rosenbaum's alleged killer turns out to be -- not surprisingly -- a bonehead.

James Frey is (allegedly) a giant asshat

As I was leaving beautiful Greensboro, N.C. in 2004 for the nation's Capitol, a good friend gave me a lovely parting gift. "A Million Little Pieces," a book by a fellow named James Frey, who claims it's a memoir.

It's a great read. Frey tells a grisly, detailed story of his life as a young crack fiend, bad-ass tough-guy criminal, and all-around asshole, and how he found redemption and love in a Minnesota rehab clinic. I was touched. I recommended it to friends. I gave it a place of honor on my good bookcase -- the one in my living room where I show off all my "good" books.

Unfortunately, looks like everything about Frey's story except the asshole part was, at best, embellished, and at worst, completely made up. His worst criminal convictions were some DUIs. He was never investigated by the FBI for selling cocaine. No mafia and federal judge buddies he met in rehab leaned on hillbilly prosecutors in Ohio to get him out of a long prison sentence. And in the most vile fiction, contrary to his claims, he had nothing to do with a train accident in his hometown that killed two young women. All bullshit, according to The Smoking Gun.

It's a heck of a piece of journalism -- a lesson in how to root out documents and parse the truth. I recommend the story; I no longer recommend Frey's piece of shit book. It's not even worth my back bookshelf, the one where I keep old textbooks and sci-fi.

Frey has "threatened to sue" The Smoking Gun, according to the Associated Press. Here's the thing about "threatening to sue." Some editors I respect once told me not to bother writing news stories about people "threatening to sue." It's as easy to threaten to sue someone as it is to turn your boring, sorry, fuckhead life into a best-selling memoir.

Update: The New York Times reports on The Smoking Gun's report. Let the echo chamber begin! I'm very curious to see how Oprah reacts to all this. My prediction: after getting burned by two dickweed contemporary authors, Oprah will never name another one to her book club again. You reap what you sow, silly publishing industry.

Welcome to DC, 2006

Where even a former crackhead mayor isn't safe.

In other news, I met a candidate for mayor of this fine third-world city the other day. I'm sitting at my computer Saturday afternoon, minding my own business, when a pretty girl walks up to the door and knocks. Says she's an aide to Fenty, and that he's just down the street, and would I like to meet him? Why not. He strolls up a few minutes later. Nice enough guy. Acknowledges that the schools here suck. Says he'll fix them. Sure he will. Wants my vote. I'll keep an eye on him, I say.

Pretty girl gets my name and email for their mailing lists, but no, I don't want a "Fenty for Mayor" sign for my window.

The election isn't until next November. Gotta give him credit for hustling, anyway.

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?