A case for vandalism

Today was one of those mornings when the alarm clock seemed to be speaking a different language. You see, I had a nice two- or three-hour break in sleep thanks to an extremely courteous neighbor letting his car alarm go off all night.

First of all: Did you know that if you call the non-emergency hotline to report an annoying car alarm, they'll automatically transfer you to 911? Not that it makes the police come any faster, but it's an interesting point. It probably has something to do with reports of a terrorist plot involving car alarms.

I had no earplugs, just my noise-canceling headphones, which I can't sleep in because of my inability to sleep on my back or my stomach for any extended period of time. If the police ever came, I had finally dozed off to dreams of revenge. After a few hours, I actually get used to the noise.

But at least I'm not suffering alone. I had no idea how much bandwidth has been dedicated to these nuisances.
Like here.
Or here.
Or here.
And here.
And the best one.

My favorite part of those is the stories of people retaliating against the offending car. The thought crossed my mind last night. In fact, I even stood at the window for a moment with an old jar of satay sauce from the refrigerator, contemplating hurling it down six stories through the windshield. I thought better of it, mostly because I didn't trust my aim at 4 a.m., but also because I didn't particularly want something with my fingerprints on it in the car should my aim have actually worked and should the police have ever arrived.

I'll be ready next time, though. I'm still trying to decide which would be best. Dumping a jar of molasses on the hood and windshield? A dozen or so eggs? Or just an old-fashioned keying? Ooh, I smell a future blog poll question!

A special note to my new friend

Yes, you, dear. The lovable old scamp-of-a-thousand-facelifts outside of the Jacobs Theatre tonight. You know, the one who thought it would be proper to, as I stood in line to pick up my ticket from the box office, whack me with your cane so you could better read the posted review on the wall. The one who apparently thought that was the appropriate gesture rather than a simple "excuse me." The one who also apparently thought the absolute best time to read up on a show was within 30 minutes of an actual performance, a time when dozens of other people are gathered around the theatre, particularly those trying to get in the aforementioned line that happens to go right through your choice reading spot. The one who proved that, without a doubt, the sense of entitlement is the absolutely last thing to go, long after looks, health, grace and tact.

Yes, dear. I have a message for you. What was it? Ah, yes! Go to hell.

That is all.

Oh, and happy Halloween everyone! Hope your costumes were great. I apparently dressed up as an American vandal in Singapore.

Broken-down cyborg

So, San Francisco was fantastic, but more on that later. I came home incomplete! No, I didn't leave my heart in San Francisco, but I did leave my cell phone in my chauffeured car on the way home. And it's disturbing. And the most disturbing aspect is that the biggest drawback to losing my cell phone is NOT that I no longer have the ability to make calls on the fly. In fact, that's ranked pretty near the bottom.

First, I've discovered I have no memory for phone numbers anymore. None. I know three numbers by memory that are stored in that phone: my parents, my sister Cheryl and my friend from Houston *and San Francisco travel companion) Kristina. Not included on that list are some close friends, two other sisters and my own home phone number. That's right. I've never even committed my home phone number to memory. When I called the car service to see if I could get my phone back, they asked me at what number they could reach me. I blanked and had to give them my work number.

What's more, if I had to get a new phone, I would also lose a long list of phone numbers of people whom I never want to talk to again -- see any of my date stories on here for an example. The chance of those people popping out of the woodwork again to call me is pretty slim, but it's not as slim as the chance of me actually recognizing the phone number should that happen. That's why I never erase a phone number.

That's not all that's stored on that phone, either. There are tons of photos I've never backed up. Most of them are garbage, anyway, but there are a few of a, let's just say, delicate nature.

My subway ride seemed a lot longer this morning. The Yahtzee game I have on it is mindless and not very challenging even on the hardest setting. Yet, that mindless activity keeps me distracted and prevents me from making eye contact with the crazies on the A train.

I also no longer have any judgment of time. Ever since I was a kid, probably because my wrists were so small, I never wore a watch. My cell phone became my watch. I almost had to ask a stranger for the time this morning.

Fortunately, the driver has found my phone, and I should be getting it back soon. Perhaps even tonight. But how terrifying how much I rely on that little device. And if had been my iPod that I had left behind, I'd have called in sick today.

*knock knock knock* Housekeeping!

The truly observant might notice I just made a few long overdue adjustments to my links. Mostly, I needed to add some fabulous folks who visit here regularly and actually talk back to me -- and if I forgot anyone, slap me now.

Unfortunately, I also had to delete one. I won't even say which one. This was a rather large blog that didn't even know I existed, so me even mentioning it is about like somebody saying "I'm going to boycott McDonalds. That'll show 'em!" But this is my podium, so I'll bitch anyway.

The reason for the deletion was not even for anything the blogger him/herself particularly had done. However, posts about the whole Folsom Street Fair/Miller ads situation, which I don't even feel like addressing myself, gave way to some of the nastiest, most homophobic comments I've seen since, well, Ja Rule, I guess. One commenter went so far as to suggest that there was no need to worry about the people in the ad in question, because they'd all be dead of AIDS next year, or something like that. Strangely enough, this blog was one that went on and on about DailyKos commenters being over the top and was calling on freaking Democratic politicians who have nothing directly to do with Kos to revoke them. Yet the AIDS comment and several like it sat untouched for days. And there was no recourse to flag such nasty comments. So, bye, babe.

Seriously, if anyone REALLY wants to figure out which one, it's not that hard. I did a post long ago about all my links. Mazes on TGI Friday's placemats are tougher to crack.

Pain is Hate

Not reaching people with those Pat Boone records? Worried that nobody knows who the hell Dean Jones is anymore? Thinking Anita Bryant is never going to get out of Branson? Don't fret, Concerned Women for America. You've found your new musical spokesperson: Jeffrey Atkins, er, Ja Rule. Said he to Complex:

We need to go step to MTV and Viacom, and lets talk about all these fucking shows that they have on MTV that is promoting homosexuality, that my kids can’t watch this shit. Dating shows that’s showing two guys or two girls in mid-afternoon. Let’s talk about shit like that! If that’s not fucking up America, I don’t know what is.”

Yeah, Ja. Those dating shows are pretty insipid. But, as far as I know, those contestants haven't been arrested for beating up a DJ in Nigeria, played a part in shooting a rival rapper, gotten arrested for gun possession nor called their fellow collaborators a bitch. Well, maybe they did do that last part. But, whatever. Go on back to spreading the Gospel of Jesus, peppered with the word fuck every few minutes, and working for Murder, Inc., and your liquor and online gambling enterprises. You're a moral beacon to us all!

Up to this point, Ja Rule was best known for feuding with a bunch of people, grumbling a few things under Jennifer Lopez's vocals and putting out a bunch of songs no one has thought about in several years. He's also rumored to be starring in the family-friendly flick "Saw IV."

Enjoy your new friend, Sandy Rios! Perhaps he can rechristen the group Concerned Women For Not Fucking Up America.

In other news, the homophobic 50 Cent--the aforementioned rival rapper, in fact--was outsold by Kanye West, who has made it a point to speak out against homophobia in hip-hop. Let's hope fiddy keeps good on his promise to retire.

I am officially an old man

No, I'm not talking about a certain birthday coming up soon.

Last night, I did something I had never done before. I called in a noise complaint. And it was these guys, the stars of one of my very early posts on this blog.

Last year, Iglesia Cristiana had only one obnoxious outdoor service. This time, it's been one or two a week for the last three or four weeks. The congregation sets out rows of chairs on the street, the preacher sets up a loudspeaker and the show is on for at least an hour: a screaming preacher and horrid, repetitive songs sung flatly to a shrill keyboard. And it takes over my entire apartment.

Sorry, guys. I'm sure there's a special place in hell for people who report churches to the police. But at least it will be quiet there.

Is Gloria Allred available?

I had a lovely surprise waiting for me in my mailbox today. As it turns out, the owner of my building has gone bankrupt! I particularly loved how the letter started "...as you probably already know." Yeah, sure. I read it on Drudge.

At any rate, the letter told me little more than to be sure to send my rent checks to the Chapter 11 trustee rather than the property owner. Very well, but that leaves a lot of unanswered questions. What happens to my lease? What about my security deposit -- no small sum, I might add -- and the interest it's accruing? Who takes care of maintenance?

Also funny was the offer that I had the option of hand delivering my rent to the new location rather than mailing it. This new location is on the 57th floor of the Chrysler building. Right. I'll get right on that.

There is tons of info out there for landlords who have tenants declaring bankruptcy, but not much out there for this situation. Whatever it is, I'm sure they're going to find a way to screw my neighbors and me.

Life stinks

One of my morning subway distractions is the collection of games I have downloaded on my cell phone, including a version of The Game of Life. It's a bit different than the 70s version of my sisters' that I used to play as a kid, but the premise is generally the same. I realized this morning, however, that I couldn't play this horrendous game anymore. Think of what it promotes:

1) Money is worth something only when you don't spend it. What's the point of the game? To end up with the most cash in hand. How do you lose the cash? By landing on spaces like "Tour South America" or "Backpack through Europe." In other words, it's better not to do these sorts of things in favor of amassing a Scrooge McDuck-sized pile of gold to sit on in your money room in your old age.

2) Marriage is mandatory, and no homos allowed. No matter what I do, I'll always get that little woman head stuck in my car with me when I pass that marriage space. I guess I could get the man of my dreams by disguising myself as a woman at the game's start, but I don't play that way.

3) Who needs college when you can just screw the other guy? One of the changes from the version I'm used to is that you have a choice whether to go to college or not. Going to college starts you out in debt (fair enough), but you get a few more chances for a good job in salary. But not so fast. There are plenty of "switch salaries with another player" spaces, so that yokel who skipped college can drop his $20K a year salary on you at any moment. Besides, the college-skippers usually end up drawing the $100K salary right away, and they get an extra payday space to boot.

4) In picking a career, pipe dream jobs are the best, but avoid serving the community at all cost. Another change is that the money you lose from spaces usually goes to whomever drew the relevant career. The two most lucrative careers on the board that seem to generate the most money? Athlete and artist. And I don't mean any type of artist, like a singer or a dancer. This is the little stereotypical painter with a palette. Yeah, that's promising career. The worst jobs? Teacher and police officer. Nobody ever lands on those spaces.

5) Children are worth a little upon birth but then serve as nothing but drains on your finances. If I recall, in my old version, you got a bit of money for each kid in your car at the end of the game. Not so in this version. In fact, the only purposes the kids seem to serve after birth are to add to the amount you have to pay when you land on the "pay for your children's education" spaces.

6) Life experience has little value. Another new twist is little "Life Cards" that you get with each event, such as the birth of the child, when you run for mayor or your honeymoon. The turn into cash at the end of the game, but the amount is rarely enough to change the outcome, particularly since the person with the most money gets four of them just for existing.

7) Good housing is for losers. The final new twist is the "buy a house" space, in which you randomly draw a variety of house, ranging from the $40,000 split level to the $200,000 Victorian. These have absolutely no value at the end of the game, so the lucky ones are the ones who draw the split level or the mobile home.

So there you go. I refuse to participate in this conglomeration of the ideals of Grover Norquist, Donald Trump, James Dobson, Matthew Lesko, Lorenzo de Medici, Roseanne Conner and Baron Bombast into a one sickening, evil dystopia. I'm sticking with that boxing game where you beat up the different ethnic stereotypes.

Wait, that's not right, either...

Stars of screen and stage -- simultaneously

After seeing uncredited guest appearances by Jon Stewart, ragin' Cajun evangelist Jesse Duplantis and Papa Smurf on the Off-Broadway stage, I must declare enough!

The first time I saw a working television as a part of a play was "Hurlyburly" a few years ago. It was an interesting convention, seeing the Smurfs or Go-Bots or whatever other "Hey, it's the 80s" statement they wanted to hammer in. And I suppose closing out with Johnny Carson had a plot purpose.

Then, a few weeks ago, I caught "Stone Cold Dead Serious," which treated us to a pre-show QVC extravaganza of sports memorabilia as barely lucid Dad napped on the couch. OK, the QVC appearance figured into the plot, too, although the later appearance of Duplantis was just bizarre. And it was a show about media -- largely video games, but television, too -- so it gets a pass. Barely.

Then, Wednesday, I caught "Dying City," during which an episode of "Law & Order" played on the sparse set as the audience wandered in. Yes, again, "Law & Order" figured into the dialogue, but later on, when the television started playing "The Daily Show" -- which also had been a part of the dialogue -- it was the most distracting moment of all. Some in the audience were actually chuckling at Jon Stewart's quips rather than pay attention to the acting on stage. Hear that, directors? Your props are upstaging your actors!

Listen, guys and gals. We might be an over-stimulated generation, but we still have the capability for a slight suspension of disbelief. Just like we know that there's not a big transparent wall in someone's apartment that's letting the audience peer in, we also could probably accept that a blank television set is not actually playing "Law & Order," "The Tonight Show," "Jerry Falwell's Old Time Gospel Hour" or whatever.

Because you know what the extra media element brings me back to? That dreadful tour of "Starlight Express" with the 3-D movies in lieu of races. And trust me: That's one theatrical memory you do not want me to dredge up while watching your show.

Be my test audience, please

Hello, all. I've been invited to do a little comedy routine at a certain event, and there's some new material I'd like to try out. I'm going to write out the routine, and I want you all to be brutally honest. Is it funny? Here goes:

I really don't understand the big flap over the so-called "anti-Christian" bloggers employed by John Edwards. The last thing they should do is apologize for using the word "godbag." The last time I heard the word, it was from a casual acquaintance of mine who goes to a Lutheran church or something like that, so obviously it's not offensive to any Christian anywhere.

If anything, decrying the use of the word "godbag" would be offensive in of itself, as it would leave no alternative but for us to be "evolutionbags," and heaven knows that crap never happened! But enough about that. Here's what the bloggers should do next:

1) Start a Web site called "Global War on Christians" today.
2) Begin writing essays calling for the cleansing and purification of society via the mass murder of Christians.
3) Distribute videos on the Web site showing the actual murder of Christians.
4) Circulate instructions on how to bomb Southern Baptist churches in the South.
5) Circulate a "battle dispatch" to give specific information on America's most notorious Baptist churches.
6) Apply for a job at Liberty University.

Laughing yet? No? Surely you're laughing as much as I was when I read this column by Mike S. Adams over at Townhall.com. Even more of a riot were the comments below it. I particularly loved the one by the appropriately named "Handy": Whenever a gay guy comes on to me, I ask him if he's into "fisting." Regardless of his answer, I put one on his nose just for good measure.

Ha ha ha ha ha! It's funny because it really happens. Truly, Townhall, you should be proud.

Vacation days on barter

When I first moved to New York, it took me about two months to get my cable installed. Living alone, I had no one at home to let the cable installer in during the week -- and was just starting a new job, so could hardly take a day off for that -- and Time Warner isn't exactly easy when it comes to weekend appointments. My first few months, the only station I could get was a very snowy Telefutura.

Now, I'd expect that from the cable company. But from my apartment's internal maintenance crews? For some reason, they absolutely refuse to come into my apartment when I'm not here. They called today and actually seemed to expect me to take a day off work to let them in to fix a leaky radiator (a problem I told them about a month ago that they're just getting around to because it's now leaking into the apartment below me). They have the same policy with their exterminator, which might explain why all the roaches in the apartment complex seem to visit my kitchen.

I'm just glad that 4 percent rent increase is going to good use.

As side note -- this is my 100th post! How appropriate that it's me bitching about something.

On-time patrons will be seated at the discretion of the pushy

Theatre latecomers bear the brunt of ire from their fellow patrons -- including me -- but I think another group that is just annoying: the ones who, as my sister Cheryl would put it, show up early enough to put up the chairs.

A recent Charles Isherwood missive in the New York Times lamented the theme-park-like lines that snake around the touristy shows like "Hairspray" and "The Phantom of the Opera." I think the fault lies squarely at some ridiculous sort of idea that there's some sort of value in showing up early and being seated first.

Just the other day, I went to buy a ticket to "110 in the Shade" -- so looking forward to finally seeing Audra McDonald in a musical, but that's another story -- from Studio 54 at about 6:30 on a Friday night. There was already a modest crowd mingling outside, waiting to see "The Apple Tree," which didn't even start for another hour and a half.

Seriously. Virtually no Broadway show or theatre anywhere that's not of the dinner variety will let you in more than 30 minutes before the show begins. Even then, once inside, there's not that much to do while waiting for the show. There's no opening act. I promise you, tourists, that Niall Buggy doesn't come out and do a monologue from "Translations" while you wait for "A Vertical Hour" to begin. Reading the Playbill or buying a souvenier program, the appeal of which I've never understood, is about the extent of your entertainment choices.

Sure, most theatres have a bar, but the drinks are going to be twice as much ones even at a Times Square bar. So please, tourists or otherwise overeager theatregoers: Go explore the city a bit more in your extra time rather than camp outside and cause pointless lines. It doesn't even have to be New York specific, which is difficult in Times Square anyway. Drink a cup of Starbucks coffee. Shop for shoes at Foot Locker. Have an appetizer at Applebee's. Whatever makes you comfortable. Then show up at the theatre sometime between 30 and 5 minutes before the show begins, and enjoy.

Alas, I guess this betrays human nature. Just look at an airport. People crowd around to get onto a plane long before their row is called as if being first will somehow get them to their destination city faster.

Just remember what happened to little Pamela Purse.

The Golden Gate couldn't suspend this disbelief

My vote for the most far-out commercial on TV today:

I couldn't tell you the exact product, but it's some sort of Christmas decoration featuring three singing characters. The ad takes place in an airport, where a tired family gets word that their flight has been delayed for two hours. Mom and dad pull out the decoration, and not only does it captivate the children, but everyone in the waiting area clusters around to listen to it. They're so enthralled, in fact, that no one notices when (presumably two hours later) the airline employees are trying to get them to board the plane.

I've been on enough delayed flights to know:

1) A mere 30-minute delay is enough to cause a near riot, particularly on holidays. If it's two hours, it's time for the bar. Leave the kids at the Cinnabon.
2) Pity the person who pulls out a noisy toy in an airport waiting area, particularly in said delayed flight situation. I once got my head bitten off for shuffling a deck of cards too many times.
3) You're safer standing between Mark Foley and a Laguna Beach cast appearance than you are standing in front of the gate when it's time to board. I've never understood it, but people are an incredible hurry to get on the plane -- even those who aren't vying for carry-on space. I guess deep down, they think they might somehow get to their destination faster than you if they get in front of you in line.

RIP: Chuck Norris jokes

There's not much I can say about the election outside of hooray for checks and balances and Arizona, boo for the other marriage amendment states and Rick Perry and I'm looking forward to a certain someone buying me a drink.

Hands down, however, the best election coverage, as usual, goes to the crackpot analysis at WorldNetDaily. I love how they immediately label Nancy Pelosi our new "socialist-leaning speaker," and nothing can beat Joseph Farah's top story of the day: a proposed rule for the New York Board of Health under which transgendered people, under certain circumstances, will be able to change their official gender. Where might this lead, oh blessed Joseph?

Surely everyone can see how this action can bring to a screeching halt all of the political debate taking place across the country over same-sex marriage. Because if all Person X has to do to marry Person Y is make a cosmetic change on his or her birth certificate, than all the constitutional amendments in the world can't save the institution of marriage.

A simple cosmetic change on a birth certificate, eh? Not quite. The rules require that a person changing gender must provide affidavits from doctors and mental health professionals, live as the new gender for two years and affirm that the change will be permanent. If I wanted to circumvent marriage laws, immigrating to the Netherlands would be easier.

Commentary of the day, however, goes to Maralyn Lois Polak. Looks like with the defeat of George Allen, the GOP's found their candidate for 2008, who as Pam's House Blend recently pointed out, also is WND's newest columnist:



Pam's post also reminded me of reading Chuck Norris' first column last week, when he addressed those ubiquitous Chuck Norris facts. You know the ones:

Chuck Norris does not sleep. He waits.
The chief export of Chuck Norris is pain.
There is no chin under Chuck Norris' Beard. There is only another fist.
Chuck Norris has two speeds: walk and kill.

So how does Chuckie address these "facts?" By sucking the humor out of them faster than Rush Limbaugh in a room full of McDonalds' milkshakes. Like this:

Alleged Chuck Norris Fact: "There is no theory of evolution. Just a list of creatures Chuck Norris has allowed to live." It's funny. It's cute. But here's what I really think about the theory of evolution: It's not real. It is not the way we got here. In fact, the life you see on this planet is really just a list of creatures God has allowed to live. We are not creations of random chance. We are not accidents. There is a God, a Creator, who made you and me. We were made in His image, which separates us from all other creatures.
By the way, without him, I don't have any power. But with Him, the Bible tells me, I really can do all things -- and so can you.

Alleged Chuck Norris Fact: "Chuck Norris' tears can cure cancer. Too bad he never cries. Ever."
There was a man whose tears could cure cancer or any other disease, including the real cause of all diseases -- sin. His blood did. His name was Jesus, not Chuck Norris.
If your soul needs healing, the prescription you need is not Chuck Norris' tears, it's Jesus' blood.
Again, I'm flattered and amazed by the way I've become a fascinating public figure for a whole new generation of young people around the world. But I am not the characters I play. And even the toughest characters I have played could never measure up to the real power in this universe.

Remember that MTV commercial showing the evolution of "bling-bling," ending with the term's death after grandma is saying it?

Remember when the Macarena became a Bob Dole punchline after he fell off a platform, and everyone knew the dance craze was finally over?

Remember when Pat Boone (another WND columnist) started dressing in heavy metal-style outfits?

Remember when William Hung got not one but two album deals and drained the small sliver of respectability Ricky Martin still held?

Chuck Norris Facts: Time of death, 1 a.m. Eastern, Oct. 23, 2006.

Please tell me this is a joke

An actual letter to the editor from The Facts in Brazoria County, where a very dear woman, Mary Ruth Rhodenbaugh, is running for the office of county commissioner:

A MAN IS NEEDED TO REPRESENT PRECINCT 4

A man is the only one who should be elected for the County Commissioner of Precinct 4 — or any other precinct in Brazoria County.

It certainly would be an “interruption” for a woman commissioner to come on board. My husband, Donald Anderson, was the safety man for Precinct 4 when he passed away Aug. 15, 1997. And if he were still living, and a woman commissioner would come to Precinct 4, he would be the first one to leave. And if I were still working there, I would be the second one to leave. This is no place for a woman commissioner, period.

The two girls who work at Precinct 4 are doing a great job. The 47 men have a safety meeting once a week, a morning meeting before they start their schedule of working on roads, mowing ditches, taking care of their equipment and working in the shop.

Mary Ruth seems to have done such a great job on all of the jobs that she has listed, that she should stick to one of those listed, letting a man take care of Precinct 4.

Winnie Anderson, West Columbia

Listen, you old hag. I was just trying to wax poetic about how impressed I was with my latest visit to my hometown, and you have to spoil it with this 1840s garbage?

So, Winnie, darling, I know that you're just a girl and probably don't have no need of no schoolin', but let me explain something about a county commissioner job. First of all, the commissioners do not actually go out there and pave the roads and dig the ditches themselves. That's what the crews are for. Even if they did, the woman in question, who has led the building of dozens of houses for Habitat for Humanity, would be a lot better suited to do it than some of the county commissioners of years past, some of whom have been so old that they've had a stroke while in office.

If your husband was so backward-thinking that he would have quit his job rather than work for one of them wimmin folk, then let me say that Aug. 15, 1997 definitely is not going to go down in my calendar as one of the saddest days on record.

All it needs is a backward-talking dwarf

Moving away from politics and back into the shallow end for a while, I must get this off my chest: I just don't understand Manhattan Storage's ads. Ever.

The latest campaign is the one here. I know it's tiny, as I had to snap it from a distance. Basically, it's a couple of mullet-headed trailer park dwellers sitting on patio furniture with a big ice chest and an 80s-style boombox outside of a house, with the warning: "You're just not meant for the suburbs."

OK, first of all, who is "you" supposed be? The frightening people in the photo? If so, that's a New Yorker stereotype I'm not really familiar with, although presumably it could be about Staten Islanders, I guess.

Or is this supposed to be the suburban hell that awaits me if I leave my Manhattan paradise? Well, I hate to tell them, but if that's the best neighborhood I could find, the $29 a month for storage is probably going to be too steep for me.

Admittably, this campaign makes a bit more sense than their last one: A man who looks one of the above guys' uglier brother forlornly clutching a teddy bear with the title: "I wish I could quit you." Now obviously, although the quote is somewhat butchered and the subject would look like Heath Ledger only after a few sandpaper and acid baths, it was a reference to Brokeback Mountain. But why? Is the poor guy so heartbroken that he's going to rent an entire storage unit to save his teddy bear and perhaps a button-up shirt that reeks of a lost love?

I guess Manhattan Storage is just too abstract for me. And remember: This criticism is coming from someone who adored "Mulholland Drive."

Foley's poison apple sale

Let's get one thing clear, bloggers, mainstream media, pundits, politicians et al: Mark Foley is not gay. He might be homosexual, but he's never wanted membership in the club, and he's not going to get it now. He represents nothing more than a mentally ill, deranged constituency of one.

Unlike many of my fellow progressives, I did not rejoice when I heard about the Foley scandal. I knew exactly where they were going to take this, and sure enough, it's been taken there. We're in full-on blame-the-gays mode.

Let's begin with WorldNetDaily columnist and professional twat Linda Harvey. This braindead harpy seems to think that Foley's problem indicates that all gay men should be locked up and castrated. She says:

Open or suspected homosexuals should never be elected. The problem with homosexuals is that they frequently don't have common sense and don't acknowledge appropriate boundaries. Weird sex, public displays of "affection" and nudity, and sex with youth are built into the "gay" sub-culture. Witness any pride parade, stroll around any predominantly "gay" neighborhood, or visit "GLBT" websites and you quickly see the problem.

Next up, let's take a visit the Lone Star Times blog. Quoth one of the commenters:

People used to fear us a year ago they were scared to death of us! We have let that happen in our allowing deranged boy blind faggots and wimp bastard retreatists get their hands on the reigns. I read in the paper this morning that Foley wasn't outed because we were afraid of offending gays!

Wow! So somehow, the Iraq quagmire is the gays' fault, as demonstrated by the Foley scandal. What analysis! Never mind that Mark Foley is one out of hundreds of Republicans, most of whom would just as soon see the homos sent to the gas chamber if they thought it would please the cracker electorate as represented above.

Well, unlike some underarm hair of Joseph Farah's or some 297-pound unemployed redneck from the greater Houston area (just making a guess, based on my experience there), I have had a bit more exposure to gay men than some 1950s PSA and reruns of The Match Game. Let me make this clear: Not only does every gay man I know have no interest in underaged boys, they also abhor and ostracize the small minority of them who do. So you folks shut the hell up and take responsibility for your party's own mess, and stop trying to place the blame on me, Barney Frank, some disgraced congressman from 30 years ago and Bishop Gene Robinson.

Oh, and a special message for Mark Foley: If you're thinking of having some contrite, James McGreevey "I am a gay American" moment, don't. No one wants to hear about your alcoholism, your supposed abuse at the hands of priests or whatever. Just go find some dark corner where you can masturbate to the pre-teen section of the JC Penney catalog and Degrassi episodes and vanish.

Update: To be fair, LST blogger David Benzion (as noted in the comments) has deleted the comment I quoted, and the LST people have done a good job historically of deleting or calling out people on such comments. I wouldn't read the blog otherwise.

I don't value your e-pinion

I'd hoped to be blogging about my adventures in Iceland and France by now, but unfortunately, Duane Reade has had other ideas. That's right. I'm so behind technology-wise that I've yet to get a digital camera, and depending on our local pharmacy to develop photos is trying to say the least.

So while I wait, now seems like as good as time as any for a little pre-trip observation: Online reviews are virtually worthless. When I was planning the trip, I was trying to get some background on Icelandair. Online reviews had three recurring themes:

1) The food sucked.
2) The flight attendants were not friendly.
3) Icelandic passengers were given preferential treatment with aisle and window seats.

What did these people expect?

1) It's an airplane, idiot.
2) Flight attendants are there primarily for safety reasons, not to serve you five glasses of ginger ale at inopportune times.
3) This is probably the most ridiculous complaint. First of all, I had a window or an aisle seat on each leg of my trip. Second, how the hell would they know? Because they were stuck with an middle seat, and the people on either side of them were fair-skinned blondes? (Like me, by the way? Perhaps they assumed I was Icelandic?) Did they check every passport? Did they chat with every person on the aisle or by the window on the plane? Even if they did, I would venture that most American tourists could not tell the difference between Icelandic, Danish, Norwegian or Swedish. And even if they had some empirical evidence to prove their point, let's think about it. Who usually gets first shot at the best seats on a plane? The frequent flyers. Now a pop quiz, only one question:

Who would be the most likely candidate for a frequent flyer program on Icelandair?
a) Someone from Iceland who has virtually no other airline from which to choose
b) Phil and Rosemary from Des Moines, who are making a trip to Iceland for a few days and will probably never think about it again save some pictures they took from the tour bus that were tossed in a shoebox a few weeks after the trip

Online reviews are useful only in warning of the real clunker companies out there. I do credit them for saving me the embarrassment of sending a friend to the seemingly bargain-price Hotel Carter in Times Square a year ago. When there are five reviews that mention rats in the room on the first page alone, one takes notice. But outside of those instances, they're a gathering place for shills and overly critical people who have nothing to do but make baseless accusations to keep the chip on their shoulder. Ignore them.

This message was brought to you by Icelandair.

The velocity of fairies

I've never understood the huge deal made over a first date. Relationship gurus have written pointless novels on stupid dos and don'ts that, while they certainly make sense, to me only add to the senseless anxiety. The worst first dates I've ever had have been the ones during which we both were trying to stick to these ridiculous rules, avoiding certain topics and questions, and then try to adhere to some inane phone-calling schedule once it's over. Besides -- for my money, nothing is more crucial than the second date.

One of the only things I vaguely remember from high school chemistry -- outside of the fact that it's impossible to spell my name using symbols from the periodic table -- is Heisenberg's uncertainty principle. The point of it, basically, was that it was impossible to know both the location and velocity of an electron at the same time.

Well, the first date is that electron. When you get home (or in some cases, I guess, when he goes home), you might think you know where everything stands. But it's not until that second date that you'll really know that velocity of where things are going. Do things seem to just be a repeat of Date One? Have you already run out of conversation topics? Or do you actually end the date still feeling like this is a guy with potential?

Even when the answer to that last question is yes for me, this also is where I usually manage to blow the deal. I almost never have problems getting that second date. The third, however, is the one that eludes me. So where are those second-date self-help books? There's a money-maker to be had here, people. Get cracking!

Meanwhile, I think I've just realized one piece of first-date advice that I probably should follow: Never bring up Heisenberg's uncertainty principle on the first date unless you're going out with a chemical engineer. Actually, don't mention it then, either, because the conversation will be gibberish from that point on. Never give an engineer an opening.

How's that for an ending double-entendre?

Photagrafer grammer 101

One of the newspaper paradoxes I've noticed: The more skilled a photographer is at his/her craft, the more atrocious the cutlines will be that accompany the photo.

Witness the Daily News this morning. Now, the Daily News already writes its cutlines in Tarzan English, which drives me nuts. Today, however, a lovely then/now shot as part of a Hurricane Katrina retrospective was marred by a "were" where a "where" should have been.

The paradox also works the other way. At one newspaper job, a photographer shortage had us reporters required to take our own photos at some of the events we covered. Most of our resulting work would cause the editors to howl with laughter until they realized they had no usable shots to run with our story.

I did manage to eke out two centerpiece photos during that time. One was a toddler riding a mechanical bull at the county fair. The other was a woman pinning a clown nose on her 90-something-year-old mother. I'm still waiting on my Pulitzer for those.