The Mel Gibson Paradox

SO YOU MEAN TO TELL ME that it's just a coincidence that Mel Gibson is on the cover with an article called "The Mel Gibson Nobody Knows" and in that same issue there's an article called "Civility Pays?"


No. This is not a coincidence. Obviously, someone has a time machine.

The Tragedy of Recurrent Baldness

DO YOU REMEMBER THE FIRST TIME JEREMY PIVEN WENT BALD?



We were all so innocent then!

Engelish Onely

OF COURSE, THE OBVIOUS PROBLEM with the "English-only" movement is that most of them can hardly speak the one language they think everyone should speak. And there's no better proof of it than this photo.



Yep, that's Pat Buchanan and some douchey guy who runs a racist website, standing in front of a banner for the new "National Conferenece". Which I suppose is pronounced con-fer-EN-ess-ee. Although there are probably variants.

Diamond Dave Fun Time!

THIS MAY BE THE BEST THING EVER. It should win an Oscar, a Nobel Peace Prize and a Heisman. In fact, there aren't enough trophies in the world to congratulate this for its greatness. It's like a David Lee Roth choose-your-own-adventure. Or a build-your-own "Running With the Devil."

This is a picture of it.



And this is where you go to waste 30 or 45 minutes.

Having Your Hitler Cake...And Eating It Too

SOMETIMES I’M NOT SURE WHY CELEBRITIES get such a bad rap, especially for the stupid names they choose for their kids. Apple Martin, Dweezil Zappa, Kal-El Coppola Cage, Pilot Inspektor Lee, Moxie Crime Fighter Gillette and Jermajesty Jackson are all ridiculous in their own ways. But why pick on them so much when there’s the Campbell family from Easton, Pennsylvania? The Campbells made the news recently because their local grocery store, the Greenwich ShopRite, refused to put their 3-year-old son’s name on a birthday cake.

"We reserve the right not to print anything on the cake that we deem to be inappropriate," ShopRite spokeswoman Karen Meleta said. "We considered this inappropriate."

The kid’s name? Adolf Hitler Campbell.

Seriously. Not just Adolf Campbell. And not just Hitler Campbell. But Adolf Hitler Campbell.


All right. And celebrities are the fucked up ones for naming kids Kal-El, Pilot, Moxie or Jermajesty? Really? Celebs are the fucked up ones? Not these “salt of the earth” Pennsylvanians? These "real Americans"? Right.

Hey, guess what? Meleta also said she had denied similar requests from the Campbells the last two years, including a request for a swastika. Those were denied as well. But don’t feel sorry for the kid or his parents, the family ultimately got the Wal-Mart to decorate the cake just like they like it. Thank goodness for that.

All right, I have a few things to say about this story, and I’m NOT even going to focus on the parents who said they named their son after Adolf Hitler because the father liked the name and because "no one else in the world would have that name." (No one but Adolf Hitler, of course.) These are the same parents who named their 2-year-old JoyceLynn Aryan Nation Campbell. That’s not what I really want to talk about. Sure, I could focus on the fact that the parents try to brush this whole thing off as discrimination against them, because they’re not racist or supremacist at all. Who could even think that about the parents of Adolf Hitler and Aryan Nation Campbell? That’s like racial profiling or something, right?

Here’s the part that bugs me: Meleta also said she had denied similar requests from the Campbells the last two years. Never mind the part in the news story that said the Campbells had also requested a swastika. Never mind that bonkers shit. Let’s focus on the fact that it took the Campbells three years to finally get what they wanted: a news story about them and their fucked up names for their kids.

Look, they just liked the names, okay? And they, like any parents, wanted their entire kid’s name on the birthday cake. Even for the kid’s first birthday, they wanted little Adolf’s full name on the cake. Because kids remember that shit. If you skimp on that first cake, the kid will hate you for it forever. Obviously “Happy Birthday Adolf!” would seem insufficient. So why not have them put “Happy Anniversary of the Day of Your Birth, Little Adolf Hitler (Not the Dictator…It’s Just a Coincidence) Campbell” on the cake? Is that so hard for you, Greenwich ShopRite?

I mean, how fucking big was this cake? It’s hard enough to write “happy birthday” in cursive in icing on an ordinary cake of standard size. I can’t even imagine trying to write that whole mother effing name on anything smaller than, let’s say, a six-foot by four-foot sheet cake.

You know what? Fuck the Campbells. Fuck them for naming their kid after Hitler. And fuck them for trying to pretend like that’s okay. And while we’re at it, fuck the AP for just reporting this story like, “Isn’t this a crazy human interest story?” No, it isn’t. It’s the story of a douchebag couple that tried for three years to get attention (going back to the same grocery store over and over again) by naming their kid after Hitler. Until finally some other douche on the city desk at the local paper sat up and noticed and thought, “That’s interesting.” But it's not interesting. It's a little gross really.

So fuck the Campbells, fuck the AP and fuck the local Pennsylvania reporter who first wrote about this in the Easton Honest Shopper-Intelligencer, or whatever the local free paper is called.

I feel like we all owe Pete Wentz and Ashlee Simpson an apology for making such a fuss over Bronx Mowgli Wentz. In light of these recent developments, I have to say, that's a pretty okay name.

Blame It on Prop. 8

I GUESS IF THEY COULDN'T GET MARRIED, THEY COULDN'T STAY TOGETHER.

Maybe She Meant to Say "Coloring"?

WHILE I'M SURE THE OBAMA CAMPAIGN WAS HAPPY to have Lindsay Lohan's blog-based support during the campaign, I'm not sure she's helping things right now. During a recent interview on Access Hollywood, Lohan described her experience on Election Day by saying, "It was really exciting. It's an amazing feeling. It's our first colored president."



Yeah...um...wow.

The Media Is Retarded

WHILE WASTING TIME INSTEAD OF WORKING YESTERDAY, I came across this priceless bit of reportage on the trusty ol' CNN.com website.



And it got me thinking.

What if CNN.com is right? What if an Obama presidency was actually worse for black Americans than if he didn't get elected? I guess that's what CNN.com is really talking about, right? Aren't they just saying, "Take a minute Black America (or BlAmerica) and think about this. Are you really sure you want to vote for a black guy? Haven't things been pretty good for you under a 232-year string of white guys? Aren't you afraid that you'll jinx things by breaking that streak?"

Maybe they're totally right. Maybe this article isn't just a piece of bullshit journalism (who said that? it sure wasn't me!) that gives scholarly, conservative white guys a venue to voice their barely disguised racism. So those white guys can say awesome stuff like this: "So many whites want to be able to say, 'I'm not one of them, those bad whites. ... Hey, I voted for a black guy for president.'"

That's a quote from conservative smart guy Steve Sailer, who posits that some whites who support Obama aren't driven primarily by a desire for change, but instead would cast their votes for Obama as a sort of "White Guilt Repellent." (His words. And also a new fragrance from the makers of Axe!)

As if that's a bad thing.

As if, let's say, it was a bad thing that Jackie Robinson got into major league baseball if you could prove that Branch Rickey only did it because he felt guilty. As if, something as monumental as the first black President would only really "count" if it totally changed race relations forever.

Nope, sorry, none of that's good enough. I guess the ends don't justify the means unless the motivations behind the means justify the ends in the first place. Confused? Don't be! It's simple: Barack Obama getting elected president is only good for BlAmerica if all of the people who voted for him did so for non-racially motivated reasons. Because if even one white person votes for Obama out of "white guilt" then his presidency will "hurt" BlAmericans.

Makes perfect sense.

Where The Sun Refuses To Shine

HOW DO YOU SHOW YOUR CIVIC PRIDE? Do you wear a hat emblazoned with your town's best professional sports team? Do you run for public office so you can affect the future of your town? Or do you do what the people of Zheleznovodsk do?

That is, do you pay a bunch of money to put a big enema statue where everyone can see it? Yes, I said enema. The town is known for enemas. They love enemas there. As the director of the Mashuk-Akva Term spa told the AP, "An enema is almost the symbol of our region." I like how he says "almost." I like to think there's some sadness in his "almost," as if the director is a little bummed that the enema doesn't win Regional Symbol status hands-down. That he's still chapped that the Lesser Spotted Woodpecker gets more press than the enema he so loves. "Well, not after today, you stupid bird! Not after we drop our giant, bronze enema bomb!"

Certainly not.

So, with a great amount of civic pride, the people of Zheleznovodsk unveiled their new statue, placing it in front of the Mashuk-Akva Term spa, right under a big banner that read (and I wish I was kidding here), "Let's beat constipation and sloppiness with enemas!" It may not be as inspiring as "Mission Accomplished!" but it'll do in a pinch. Er...I mean...it'll do just fine.

What looks like a big bronze cherry carried on the back of children is actually a big bronze enema syringe. The bronze bulb weighs 800 pounds and is carried not by bronze children, but by three bronze angels. Because enemas are the work of angels...tiny, child-like, helpful angels.

"There is no kitsch or obscenity, it is a successful work of art," the spa's director said.

By the way, Zheleznovodsk translates into English as "iron waters." The city is also the home of an international hot air balloon festival. For some reason, the combination of iron waters, hot air balloons and giant bronze enemas makes me slightly uneasy. I guess I don't want the people of Zheleznovodsk to use a hot air balloon filled with iron waters to help me with my digestion. Thank you, though.

A final note:

Finding this story on the net led me to Google the phrase "enema bulb," since I found I was uncertain about the accuracy of the term. Top on Google's search list was a link for EnemaSupply.com (meeting your enema supply needs privately and discreetly since 1998), specifically to the page of "enema syringes, which included the Rimba 6 oz. Enema Syringe, the Shiny River Douche and, most disturbingly, something listed as A Very, Very Large Enema Bulb. About the latter, I quote the site, "This is the largest enema bulb we have ever seen...[It] holds 26 ounces (750ml)...[It] can be difficult to fill and to clean but if you are looking for the largest bulb syringe on the market, this is the enema bulb that you want."

So if you want to really know what the difference between Americans and Russians is, it is this: We like our enema supplies to be supplied "privately and discreetly" (at least since 1998), while the Russians build monuments to theirs. That's it. That's the big difference.

Oh, that and their rock and roll is terrible.

Stoner Ingenuity

DIDN'T EVERYONE GO TO COLLEGE with a stoner who claimed proudly that he could make anything into a bong? No matter what you threw at him, he could totally smoke pot out of it. I mean, making a bong out of an apple or a soda can is weak-ass shit for this guy, right? He'd turn a textbook or a cookie jar or a sofa or anything you would challenge him with into a giant bong. Or, failing that, he'd just smoke pot from his giant bong. Did you ever wonder what that guy was doing now?

I think I just found out.



Congratulations, dude, you are the Neal Armstrong of pot smokers. Oh wait, did I say Neal Armstrong, I meant Jeffrey Dahmer. You're the Jeffrey Dahmer of pot smokers.

My bad, I get those two guys mixed up all the time.

An Open Letter to My Shoes

Dear PF Flyers,

I really like you. I really do. When I bought you a few weeks ago, along with those lace-less Converse shoes you share the closet with, I thought you were some of the coolest looking shoes I had ever seen. And then I tried you on and found out, hey, you’re comfortable too! Always a bonus. I love the way you look with jeans, very casual and cool, relaxed, you know? You’re just really great. Really.

Which is what makes this next thing I have to say so awkward. I’m not sure I can wear you anymore.

I’m sorry. I could lie to you and say, “It isn’t you, it’s me.” But – and I’m sorry to say it like this, so blunt and to the point – it is you. It’s totally you.

Look, you’re comfortable and stylish, and for the first part of any day that I wear you, you’re great. I’ve got no complaints at all. It’s just that late in the day, you change. It’s not like you stop being stylish or stop being comfortable. It’s that you start making noise.

Farting noises.

With every step.

I thought it might get better over time. “They just need some time, to be a little more broken in. Give the shoes a break. You’re always so judgmental.” But I gave you time, and you just got worse. The more walking I do in you, the more farty you get. And I have to explain you to people. “It’s my shoes,” I say. “They make noise.”

“Sure,” they say. “It’s the shoes.”

I just can’t take it anymore. I’m sorry. But a man has his limits. I am sorry. I really thought we might have some great years together.

I’m also sorry to tell you I’ve already moved on, and that it’s the Converse shoes that I now prefer. I know it’s probably douche-y of me, you two are closetmates and all. But the heart wants what it wants.

And I want to move on. Without accompanying farty noises.

I’m sorry.

Mysterious...

THE IMAGES FROM THURSDAY'S POST disappeared from my blog. Either Blogger does not like Pricasso, and thus fine art, or the agents of Pricasso constantly trawl the web to make sure no one has misappropriated JPEGs of his genius.

Whatever the case, I have reposted photos on the post. We'll see if they stick.

Keep It In Your Pants

ALL ARTISTS HAVE EGOS to some extent. It's what helps convince them that anyone would care what they had to say or do or write or paint. But what kind of ego must you have to be this guy?



That's Pricasso. He paints with his dick. Seriously. He paints nudes (no surprise there) and portraits (of world leaders, no less), using his dick as a paintbrush. To fill in the background, sometimes he uses other body parts.



Now, admittedly his name is mostly just a pun. He could have gone with Vincent Van Cock, Claude Bone-et, Balls Gauguin or Dick-elangelo. But I love that he chose a name that brings to mind Picasso, one of the greatest artists ever. And after visiting Pricasso's web site, I get the feeling it was no accident, like people should sit up and take notice of his painting talent. He's definitely the best artist who paints with his dick. I'll give him that.

Oh yeah, he's also a kickass poet. His use of "ware", "Virgina" and "cloths" really makes you think.

Hilariously Tasteless

There's Irony...And Then There's Irony

WHILE PUTTING SOME NEW TUNES IN MY COMPUTER, I came across this odd bit of info. One of the songs on the Rock Instrumental Classics, Vol. 3 disc I uploaded was "Rock & Roll, Part 2", the formerly ubiquitous sports stadium anthem by Gary Glitter. So I did a search on Glitter (to upload the album art to go with the song) and found something ironic.

"Rock & Roll, Part 2" was played at virtually every sporting event, professional or college level, in virtually every town for years -- that is, until Glitter (whose real name is Paul Gadd) was convicted on child pornography charges in 1999, and then (as if that wasn't enough) child sexual abuse charges in 2005. Long story short: Glitter is a totally awesome guy, right? Once those unsavory details surfaced, most sports franchises decided, "Maybe we should stop playing this song to get the crowd riled up."

Most sports franchises did that. Some did not. And here's where the irony comes in.

According to (the notoriously accurate) Wikipedia, among the teams still playing "Rock & Roll, Part 2" during games is the NHL team in Nashville. What's the name of that team?

The Predators, of course!

Go Predators!

We Need To Talk

IT'S REALLY UNCOMFORTABLE TO HAVE THIS TALK, but I feel like we need to. Just you and me. I think you should break up with your abusive boyfriend. I'm talking to you, America, because I'm really really concerned. I just don't think it's healthy anymore, this relationship. And, frankly, I think your boyfriend, China, is trying to kill you.

First he tried to poison your pets with melamine-laced food. Then he put poison in your toothpaste. And then he put lead paint all over the toys you buy for your kids.

Those three things in themselves seem sorta crazy, don't you think?

I know, I know, you still think he's great, and he's got such great potential, and I probably just don't "get him" like you do. I know that's how you feel. I totally understand. And no, I'm not jealous. I don't wish I was in a relationship with China. I really don't. I'm just trying to talk to you as a friend.

Because now China's coming for your kids again, wanting to smother them with adorable toy shelves. And if that doesn't work -- and I know this will sound totally crazy, but I'm really not making it up -- China wants to date rape your kids.

Yes, I realize this sounds crazy. But I am not making it up.

Ok, ok, fine. Don't believe me. And just keep believing that China is still good for you and believing how great this relationship could be. But don't say I didn't warn you.

Dick Problems

BIG NEWS FROM WASHINGTON TODAY, Vice-President Dick Cheney was taken to the hospital for an irregular heartbeat. Which is a little confusing, isn't it? I thought you needed a heart for that.

Oh no I didn't!

Oh yes I did.

I just snapped the VP.

Take that, O Dark One!

Everything I Know, I Learned From The Simpsons

IT MIGHT BE TIME to officially declare Heather Mills "bat-shit crazy." Up to this point, I've just thought she was kind of a mean lady and left it at that. And like most people, I watched her on "Dancing With The Stars" sorta, kinda hoping to see her high-kick her prosthesis into the crowd. Sure, who didn't? And of late she's said some weird-ass shit regarding her split from The Cute Beatle. But this really takes the cake.

Are you ready? I'm not sure you are, but here goes.

In order to combat global warming, Heather Mills, a vegan, wants people to drink rats' milk or dogs' milk.

Wha?

I mean, what the?

I mean, wait a second, this is straight out of a Simpsons episode. The one where Homer becomes a bodyguard for Mayor Quimby and finds out that Quimby is allowing Fat Tony to supply the schools with rats' milk, instead of milk from cows. It also features a hilarious turn by Mark Hamill playing a sad version of himself singing "Luke Be a Jedi Tonight" (to the tune of "Luck Be a Lady Tonight"), but I digress.

Here's the logic from the crazy lady herself: "Eighty per cent of global warming comes from livestock and deforestation. I'm not telling people to go vegan overnight. But if they stop drinking their cows' milk lattes, maybe this sort of thing won't have to happen."

Okay. I can be on board with this so far. At least theoretically. But there's more!

"There are many other kinds of milk available. Why don't we try drinking rats' milk and dogs' milk?"

Hmmm. Why don't we try drinking rats' milk? Wow. First of all, I think it is fan-fucking-tastic that someone actually said this and meant it. But let's just address some of the really crazy aspects of all this.

ONE: This is being said by a VEGAN. Normally, vegans aim to move people away from using any animal products at all. Instead, this one is suggesting we shift from cows to rats...and dogs. It's a little bit like a vegan saying, "Don't eat a hamburger! Eat a kitten instead!"

TWO: Global warming comes from livestock and deforestation. So, let's turn rats into livestock so that we can harvest and process their milk and save the planet? I mean, her idea might work...if there were giant pools of naturally occurring rats' milk and dogs' milk just lying about. (And who hasn't had that magnificent dream?)

THREE: Why am I even breaking this down? Holy shit! Rats' milk? Are you fucking crazy, lady? Wait! I know the answer to that. Yes! You are!

Mr. Million's Millions

THE STORY BROKE EARLY YESTERDAY, and is only in its early stages of exploding. In case you missed it, you may as well get on board the Controversy Train early: best-selling author James Frey may have completely fabricated large portions of A Million Little Pieces. The investigative website The Smoking Gun published a six-page story on Sunday that called into question the "creative license" Frey took with his supposedly autobiographical tale -- and, by extension, its sequel, Mr Friend Leonard. This morning, the AP picked the story up and ran with it. And in the coming days, I can guarantee you, more and more media outlets will want a piece of Frey. Luckily for him though he's made up of a million of 'em, so there will be plenty to go around. What makes this whole thing so salacious to me -- and I haven't even read the book -- is how many people have gotten on Frey's bandwagon. And now, if he's a big fat liar, how many people will feel betrayed, because they bought his tall tale of harrowing drug addiction and redemption. Top of the list: Oprah Winfrey.


Oprah became Frey's champion when she made A Million Little Pieces an official selection of her Book Club. She had him on her show as her sole guest and successfully elevated, as with nearly every other author she has ever chosen, to rock star status. Frey has taken this fame graciously and gracefully, proclaiming himself "the greatest literary writer of his generation" and "the new Staggering Genius."


Bravo, sir. Bravo.


But that behavior, while highly douchebaggish, isn't cause for anything more than a shrug of "eh, so he's full of himself, so what?" What raises this whole incident to epic proportions is that his own heartbreaking work of autobiographical genius might be more than a little made up. It may just be, as Frey has put it, embellished for "obvious dramatic reasons." On the other hand, if The Smoking Gun is right, it might be a big fat lie. In which case, there might be a few million people who feel cheated and betrayed. And I'm not just talking about Oprah...or my fiance, who read Frey's first book and then got his second book as a gift for Christmas. The funny thing is, late last week, she finally picked up My Friend Leonard and started reading it. And when I walked into the room, I saw that she was flipping through to the end of it -- not a normal practice of hers.


"So you're skipping to the end?" I said.


"Something doesn't feel right about this," she answered. "It seems made up." A couple of days later, the story broke on The Smoking Gun.


So if I haven't even read A Million Little Pieces and therefore can't count myself in with the potetially duped masses, why do I have a bone to pick with James Frey? Well, I don't really have anything against the guy personally. I'm just fascinated with the story. One side is bending the truth. If it's The Smoking Gun, then they're just another celebrity-hater who loves tearing the icons down. But if Frey is bending the truth...wow.


I don't know about you, but I'm just gonna settle back and enjoy the show.

Another Flight to Jersey

SO, I'M BACK FROM JOYZEE, and I must admit that, once again, a good time was had by all. I'm preparing a full report on the my corporate video adventure for a later posting.

In its place, I'll offer this story of racial profiling.

I'm not a big fan of flying. Most who know me know this. But I was doing pretty well on three of the four flights I had to take: from L.A. to Phoenix, Phoenix to Philly, then back again. However, on the final leg of my journey, during the boarding process, I looked up just in time to see a Mohammed Atta-lookin' fella walking back to his seat on the plane.

I chided myself silently for having such a knee-jerk reaction, especially one I've made fun of on this page. [See the February 4 entry.] So, I brushed it off and went back to reading William Least Heat Moon's River-Horse. Until I noticed the Atta-like feller sitting directly behind me -- in the exit row.

Because I am blessed (cursed?) with an active imagination, I immediately imagined a simple terrorist plan: opening the exit door while in mid-flight. Now, I am sure that someone more knowledgeable than me would be able to tell me that such a ploy wouldn't necessarily work. And I kept telling myself I was being ridiculous, but that didn't keep me from imagining it transpiring at least a half-dozen times.

Thus is my particular illness, you see.

Of course, he was not a terrorist -- at least not on THIS flight. Otherwise I wouldn't be here to pass on the story, right?

Unless this isn't really me typing right now. Perhaps the terrorists have won and they've taken over my website?

Makes ya wonder, don't it?