dead by 30

Katt Williams on Michael Jackson

2009-06-26T14:39:00.000-05:00

Come to Louisiana...

2009-06-02T17:23:00.002-05:00

You'll be murdered. New Orleans is the murder capital of the U.S., and Baton Rouge is ranked 7th. How can that be though? Louisiana has the highest incarceration rate. Our streets should be safe, right? What's that you say about a vicious circle? That's just faggy, liberal garbage. You can't even prove it.

2009-05-18T11:41:00.001-05:00

And it keeps getting better.

2009-05-17T14:52:00.000-05:00

For an explanation, click here.

2009-05-10T20:38:00.001-05:00

Never...Gets...Old

2009-05-04T22:15:00.001-05:00

Em's Back

2009-05-03T10:57:00.003-05:00

Em's video for 3 a.m. ran before the strangers on Cinemax this weekend. Oh, it's good and a real throwback for him. Check it out here.

I'm Done for a While.

2009-01-24T09:14:00.000-06:00

Thanks for reading.

3D Rawks!

2009-01-18T16:17:00.000-06:00

Go see My Bloody Valentine in 3D. Nice little throwback to old slasher films. Gory and a fun movie experience.

JUDGE DREDD RETURNS!

2008-12-22T10:50:00.001-06:00

That's right comic book fans, everyone's favorite lawman is coming back to the big screen. And this time, I think he'll get the treatment he deserves. According to imdb.com, DNA Films, who helped make Sunshine and 28 Days Later, has bought the rights.

I AM THE LAW, MOTHERFUCKERS!

Murder Was The Case

2008-11-10T20:55:00.000-06:00

please god, no

2008-11-09T18:28:00.000-06:00

will smith and spielberg to remake oldboy?

2008-11-04T21:58:00.000-06:00

November 3, 2008

Open letter to Senator Barack Obama

Dear Senator Obama:

In your nearly two-year presidential campaign, the words "hope and change," "change and hope" have been your trademark declarations. Yet there is an asymmetry between those objectives and your political character that succumbs to contrary centers of power that want not "hope and change" but the continuation of the power-entrenched status quo.

Far more than Senator McCain, you have received enormous, unprecedented contributions from corporate interests, Wall Street interests and, most interestingly, big corporate law firm attorneys. Never before has a Democratic nominee for President achieved this supremacy over his Republican counterpart. Why, apart from your unconditional vote for the $700 billion Wall Street bailout, are these large corporate interests investing so much in Senator Obama? Could it be that in your state Senate record, your U.S. Senate record and your presidential campaign record (favoring nuclear power, coal plants, offshore oil drilling, corporate subsidies including the 1872 Mining Act and avoiding any comprehensive program to crack down on the corporate crime wave and the bloated, wasteful military budget, for example) you have shown that you are their man?

To advance change and hope, the presidential persona requires character, courage, integrity-- not expediency, accommodation and short-range opportunism. Take, for example, your transformation from an articulate defender of Palestinian rights in Chicago before your run for the U.S. Senate to an acolyte, a dittoman for the hard-line AIPAC lobby, which bolsters the militaristic oppression, occupation, blockage, colonization and land-water seizures over the years of the Palestinian peoples and their shrunken territories in the West Bank and Gaza. Eric Alterman summarized numerous polls in a December 2007 issue of The Nation magazine showing that AIPAC policies are opposed by a majority of Jewish-Americans.

You know quite well that only when the U.S. Government supports the Israeli and Palestinian peace movements, that years ago worked out a detailed two-state solution (which is supported by a majority of Israelis and Palestinians), will there be a chance for a peaceful resolution of this 60-year plus conflict. Yet you align yourself with the hard-liners, so much so that in your infamous, demeaning speech to the AIPAC convention right after you gained the nomination of the Democratic Party, you supported an "undivided Jerusalem," and opposed negotiations with Hamas-- the elected government in Gaza. Once again, you ignored the will of the Israeli people who, in a March 1, 2008 poll by the respected newspaper Haaretz, showed that 64% of Israelis favored "direct negotiations with Hamas." Siding with the AIPAC hard-liners is what one of the many leading Palestinians advocating dialogue and peace with the Israeli people was describing when he wrote "Anti-semitism today is the persecution of Palestinian society by the Israeli state."

During your visit to Israel this summer, you scheduled a mere 45 minutes of your time for Palestinians with no news conference, and no visit to Palestinian refugee camps that would have focused the media on the brutalization of the Palestinians. Your trip supported the illegal, cruel blockade of Gaza in defiance of international law and the United Nations charter. You focused on southern Israeli casualties which during the past year have totaled one civilian casualty to every 400 Palestinian casualties on the Gaza side. Instead of a statesmanship that decried all violence and its replacement with acceptance of the Arab League's 2002 proposal to permit a viable Palestinian state within the 1967 borders in return for full economic and diplomatic relations between Arab countries and Israel, you played the role of a cheap politician, leaving the area and Palestinians with the feeling of much shock and little awe.

David Levy, a former Israeli peace negotiator, described your trip succinctly: "There was almost a willful display of indifference to the fact that there are two narratives here. This could serve him well as a candidate, but not as a President."

Palestinian American commentator, Ali Abunimah, noted that Obama did not utter a single criticism of Israel, "of its relentless settlement and wall construction, of the closures that make life unlivable for millions of Palestinians. ...Even the Bush administration recently criticized Israeli's use of cluster bombs against Lebanese civilians [see www.atfl.org for elaboration]. But Obama defended Israeli's assault on Lebanon as an exercise of its 'legitimate right to defend itself.'"

In numerous columns Gideon Levy, writing in Haaretz, strongly criticized the Israeli government's assault on civilians in Gaza, including attacks on "the heart of a crowded refugee camp... with horrible bloodshed" in early 2008.

Israeli writer and peace advocate-- Uri Avnery-- described Obama's appearance before AIPAC as one that "broke all records for obsequiousness and fawning, adding that Obama "is prepared to sacrifice the most basic American interests. After all, the US has a vital interest in achieving an Israeli-Palestinian peace that will allow it to find ways to the hearts of the Arab masses from Iraq to Morocco. Obama has harmed his image in the Muslim world and mortgaged his future-- if and when he is elected president.," he said, adding, "Of one thing I am certain: Obama's declarations at the AIPAC conference are very, very bad for peace. And what is bad for peace is bad for Israel, bad for the world and bad for the Palestinian people."

A further illustration of your deficiency of character is the way you turned your back on the Muslim-Americans in this country. You refused to send surrogates to speak to voters at their events. Having visited numerous churches and synagogues, you refused to visit a single Mosque in America. Even George W. Bush visited the Grand Mosque in Washington D.C. after 9/11 to express proper sentiments of tolerance before a frightened major religious group of innocents.

Although the New York Times published a major article on June 24, 2008 titled "Muslim Voters Detect a Snub from Obama" (by Andrea Elliott), citing examples of your aversion to these Americans who come from all walks of life, who serve in the armed forces and who work to live the American dream. Three days earlier the International Herald Tribune published an article by Roger Cohen titled "Why Obama Should Visit a Mosque." None of these comments and reports change your political bigotry against Muslim-Americans-- even though your father was a Muslim from Kenya.

Perhaps nothing illustrated your utter lack of political courage or even the mildest version of this trait than your surrendering to demands of the hard-liners to prohibit former president Jimmy Carter from speaking at the Democratic National Convention. This is a tradition for former presidents and one accorded in prime time to Bill Clinton this year.

Here was a President who negotiated peace between Israel and Egypt, but his recent book pressing the dominant Israeli superpower to avoid Apartheid of the Palestinians and make peace was all that it took to sideline him. Instead of an important address to the nation by Jimmy Carter on this critical international problem, he was relegated to a stroll across the stage to "tumultuous applause," following a showing of a film about the Carter Center's post-Katrina work. Shame on you, Barack Obama!

But then your shameful behavior has extended to many other areas of American life. (See the factual analysis by my running mate, Matt Gonzalez, on www.votenader.org). You have turned your back on the 100-million poor Americans composed of poor whites, African-Americans, and Latinos. You always mention helping the "middle class" but you omit, repeatedly, mention of the "poor" in America.

Should you be elected President, it must be more than an unprecedented upward career move following a brilliantly unprincipled campaign that spoke "change" yet demonstrated actual obeisance to the concentration power of the "corporate supremacists." It must be about shifting the power from the few to the many. It must be a White House presided over by a black man who does not turn his back on the downtrodden here and abroad but challenges the forces of greed, dictatorial control of labor, consumers and taxpayers, and the militarization of foreign policy. It must be a White House that is transforming of American politics-- opening it up to the public funding of elections (through voluntary approaches)-- and allowing smaller candidates to have a chance to be heard on debates and in the fullness of their now restricted civil liberties. Call it a competitive democracy.

Your presidential campaign again and again has demonstrated cowardly stands. "Hope" some say springs eternal." But not when "reality" consumes it daily.

Sincerely,
Ralph Nader

Happy Halloween

2008-10-31T10:27:00.000-05:00

YYYYYEEEESSSSSSSSS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

2008-10-05T00:14:00.000-05:00

Sorry, Cubs. But the despair of an entire city does not match the unabashed joy of this writer.

We actually won a playoff series.

Palin Debate Flow Chart

2008-10-03T21:03:00.000-05:00

click here.

2 down

2008-10-02T23:51:00.000-05:00

finish it, dodgers.

oh dodgers

2008-10-01T21:38:00.001-05:00

don't break my heart. win 2 more, please.

Entourage and the Sox

2008-09-30T22:14:00.000-05:00

So, it seems as if in each of the last few years, I get into a show I've relatively ignored, and then feel as if I've really been missing something. In 2006, it was The Shield. The next year it was The Wire. This is the year of Ari Gold and Entourage. It's not really a breakthrough, like the others. But what it is, is really funny. Laugh out loud funny.

***

Sox won tonight. Rad. When i was old enough to be left alone during summer days, I used to watch the replays of the Sox games in the mornings. I would pretend I was pitching for them, and wing the ball into an old recliner we had in our living room.

Life's shitty now. Thank god for sports.

Cursing the Ohio - Matt King

2008-09-30T12:34:00.000-05:00

thoughts on the past few days

2008-09-29T22:13:00.000-05:00

the debate was a joke. the only ones who won were corporations and military contractors.

sugar shane killed.

chris rock kkkkkkkkkiiiiiiiiiiiiilllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllleeeeeeeeeeedddddddddd.

hope y'all bought gold. we're fucked.

i'll miss paul newman.

Thank You Cardinals

2008-09-25T18:07:00.000-05:00

The Dodgers are going to the playoffs!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

2008-09-25T10:14:00.000-05:00

Baseball

2008-09-21T19:30:00.000-05:00

Goodbye, Yankee Stadium.

Hello, new member of the family. Specifically, a chair-back from Riverfront Stadium signed by Charlie Hustle.

Dodgers, don't piss this away.

2008-09-20T23:48:00.000-05:00

LSU 26

Auburn 21

Suck it, Tubberville.

There's a reason we bring a live tiger to our games, and you have a bird.

for cowboy

2008-09-18T22:34:00.000-05:00

dig.

James Cameron Pisses His Pants?

2008-09-18T21:51:00.000-05:00

tongue-in-cheek or is this guy actual human garbage?

L.A. Confidential was better.

Gilbert Gottfried's Favorite Joke

2008-09-17T20:02:00.000-05:00

The following is Gottfried's favorite joke as it appeared in Rolling Stone's recent comedy issue. I laughed out loud. Enjoy!

A bear and a rabbit are taking a shit in the woods. The bear turns to the rabbit and goes, "Do you have trouble with the shit sticking to your fur?" The rabbit says, "No." So the bear wipes his ass with the rabbit.

thanks

2008-09-16T20:14:00.000-05:00

i just wanted to say thanks to those who called and sent notes checking to see how i made out with gustav.

i am happy to report that contractors were in my building this week looking at the ever-growing hole in my ceiling. so hopefully, it will be resolved soon.

2008-09-16T19:58:00.000-05:00

so it looks like espn put up an updated version of the article i originally linked to, only this one had fewer of the more interesting details. so, for the two of you who actually read this, i'll let you know what you might have missed.

apparently, with his team losing, the goalkeeper proceeded up the field and engaged in "fetishistic" acts. the opposing team took this as witchcraft and proceeded to attempt to fight the goalkeer and his squad, thereby launching a full-scale riot, which has now resulted in 13 deaths.

Congo soccer riot over 'witchcraft' leaves 11 dead

2008-09-15T12:33:00.000-05:00

Brilliant.

Gustav is Coming

2008-08-27T21:32:00.000-05:00

I have a week's supply of water, batteries, bread, peanut butter, jelly sitting in my home. It must be hurricane season.

Target was out of most of the above. It seems as if the people learned lessons from the storm in 2005. I guess we'll see if our government has too.

It reminds me of a story a friend of mine tells. He was sitting on the tarmac waiting for his flight to take off. The captain came over the intercom and announced they would be delayed for some mechanical issues. My buddy looked out the window and saw a mechanic, wrench in hand, staring at the engine. He then had the pleasure of watching the mechanic pretend to wrench something in the engine. My friend proceeded to ask to speak to the captain.

I hope they didn't use silly putty on the levees, but I'm really not sure.

good memories for anyone else?

2008-08-21T22:11:00.001-05:00

2008-08-21T11:16:00.000-05:00

A buddy of mine is trying a case. The alleged facts are such.

Guy 1 meets and falls for Girl. Girl decides that she no longer likes Guy 1 starts seeing Guy 2. While wooing Guy 2, Girl gives him a ring which belongs to Guy 1. Guy 1 is less than thrilled.

While driving past a bar, Guy 1 spots Guy 2 outside talking with a couple of people. Guy 1 stops the truck, gets out and sees Guy 2 is wearing the ring.

Guy 1 then says, "Motherfucka, give me my ring back."

Guy 2 responds, "Fuck you, pussy nigga."

Guy 1 barks back, "Bitch, I'm gonna get my ring back."

Guy 2: "Fucking try me."

Guy 1 goes to the rear of his truck, pulls out a .30-06, turns and levels it at Guy 2. The surrounding people flee into the bar. Guy 2 doesn't believe Guy 1 will shoot him, so he stands there and responds, "You ain't gonna do shit."

Guy 1 shoots Guy 2 square in the fucking chest. And then before returning to his truck, goes over to Guy 2's body, takes the ring off his finger and says:

"Nigga, I told you I was gonna get my ring back."

Thoughts?

I Just Don't Know Anymore

2008-08-19T22:00:00.000-05:00

Everything disappoints.

Nobody listens, no matter how loud I scream.

It's like a dream, the one where you try to get someone to help you stave off the impending disaster, but they all just stare at you like you're crazy.

Abandoned, all alone.

Like Truman, the only question left is, "How's it going to end?"

thoughts on the day

2008-08-18T21:24:00.000-05:00

i don't want to get out of bed.

fuck.

livingston is a weird place.

holy fuck, cops are dirty.

no messages. good deal.

fuck, i wanted a contested hearing.

the fucking kitchen is slow.

work sucks.

this bookstore is okay.

fuck, it's raining.

fuck, i forgot the catfood.

fuck, the cats have to eat.

fuck, so do I.

fuck, the olympics are pretty cool in high definition.

fuck, i need to shower.

bed time.

video of the day:

thoughts on the the day

2008-08-17T21:58:00.000-05:00

not enough sleep.

work blows.

tropic thunder is fucking hilarious.

appaloosa is pretty good so far.

my chimichanga was pretty goddamn tasty.

work blows.

i can't wait for one of the gymnasts to land awkwardly causing the bone to pop out of her leg on live television. this sport is reprehensible.

bedtime. where's kitty?

video of the day.

if there's a hell, i'm going

2008-08-16T00:06:00.000-05:00

there's a reason i shouldn't watch larry king

2008-08-15T23:15:00.000-05:00

it would have been nice when larry king's producers decided to air a tribute show, they had actually told the old bastard who bernie mac is.

thoughts while reading the book "crossfire" on the couch

2008-08-10T15:28:00.000-05:00

man, i don't who killed him, but jfk sure got fucked with that last shot.

thoughts while reading the book "crooked little vein" on the john

2008-08-10T15:23:00.000-05:00

man, warren ellis' brain ain't like ours.

where's the toilet paper?

2008-08-10T11:57:00.000-05:00

A King Among Men

2008-08-09T15:28:00.001-05:00

i wish howard cosell was still alive (or, i'm a 5 year old)

2008-08-09T13:47:00.000-05:00

nbc was showing coverage of the american women's volleyball team this morning. they were playing japan, which had a team member with the last name of takeshita. read that again. takeshita.

now of course, the announcer didn't pronounce it they way her name is actually spelled. he said something along the lines of tak-e-she-ta.

instantly i wished cosell was alive. he would have kept it real. i can hear the call now: "Take-shit-a drops another one on the Americans."

boys really do never grow up.

thoughts on the olympics at 1:30 in the morning

2008-08-09T01:20:00.000-05:00

the opening ceremonies were actually worth watching. did anybody else get the feeling we were watching the coming out party for the new superpower in the world?

fencing would be so much better if they used real sabres.

i'm beginning to remember why i normally don't watch the olympics.

2008-08-08T23:27:00.000-05:00

I'm so disappointed. You were supposed to be different. You were supposed to be one of us. Guess you were too much like us. You were supposed to not take things for granted, because you knew what hard work was really all about. Instead, you betrayed the person who gave up everything so you could have what you wanted, and by doing so, you let us down, too. She forgave and so will we. But things are different now.

Paper Planes

2008-07-31T08:18:00.001-05:00

Hook

2008-07-30T16:34:00.000-05:00

Burn This Party Down...

2008-07-29T21:27:00.000-05:00

to the fucking ground.

SELL-OUT

2008-07-27T22:08:00.000-05:00

the negotiating table

2008-01-31T22:29:00.000-06:00

Almost Forgot

2008-01-27T22:14:00.001-06:00

There's a trailer for The Dark Knight before There Will Be Blood. So good, it sent chills down my spine.

There Will Be Blood

2008-01-27T15:34:00.001-06:00

Sammy's already said, but go see this fucking movie. Fucking Magnificent.

I am an oilman.

VIP CANDIDATE 1

2008-01-26T19:54:00.000-06:00

Mr. Bentsen's Corpse would like me to announce that he is considering several viable running mates. The first is a true immortal, who wishes to submit this video for your consideration.

Whatcha going to do when Bentsen runs wild over you.

Lloyd Bentsen's Corpse '08.

Murder By Blue

2008-01-24T22:38:00.000-06:00

Just Watch

2008-01-24T22:28:00.001-06:00

the notorious b.i.g.

2008-01-15T22:32:00.000-06:00

I recorded this one on VHS so I could memorize all the words:

welcome back

2008-01-15T21:10:00.000-06:00

Hank Aaron and the Other Guy

2007-08-07T23:32:00.001-05:00

A homerun of alleged significance was hit this evening. The whole thing saddens me to such an extent that I'm at a loss for words. So I'm going to let some of the great baseball writers at ESPN do the talking for me:

I've never been comfortable with the knee-jerk label of "cheater" to describe every athlete who stretches the moral boundaries for an edge. Willie Mays liked red juice, Pete Rose took "greenies" to lose weight, and Barry Bonds, we're told, used performance-enhancing drugs because he was jealous of Mark McGwire and Sammy Sosa. Pass around the truth serum, and you'll find it's not a very exclusive club. Was Bonds' decision regrettable? Sure. Did it tarnish his achievements? I'll buy that. But the lure of public acceptance, money or immortality can entice men to do strange things. When we're talking about drug use in relation to NFL linemen, Tour de France participants or home run hitters, we can be awfully selective with our outrage. Personally, I'm as put off by Bonds' lack of human relations skill as the contents of his medicine cabinet. Few athletes in history have been as consistently boorish, joyless, self-absorbed or seemingly oblivious to the impression they create. Yes, we know Bonds has emotional baggage. But does the rest of the world constantly have to lug it around for him? Record-setting runs are as much about the warm feelings and enduring memories they generate as the numbers in the Baseball Encyclopedia. If we can't embrace Bonds because of his personality and we can't admire him because of the short cuts he took, why should anybody care that he's baseball's home run champion? The answer is, lots of people don't. Now that Bonds has No. 756 in the bank, most folks outside San Francisco wish he would just pack up his bats and size 8 hats and go away. Are you happy with that legacy, Barry?

-- Jerry Crasnick

The record book may now indicate Barry Bonds is the new home run king. But that doesn't mean fans -- both outside and inside the game -- have to recognize Bonds' spot above Hank Aaron. The beauty baseball has always maintained over other sports is accountability in the fans' perspective. You can trust your eyes in baseball. An error is an error. A missed bunt attempt is just that. What you see is, well, what you see. A pitcher who is throwing 88 mph at the end of one season and is magically hitting 98 on the gun the next spring? That's just not humanly possible, at least not without some form of help. Same goes for home run hitters, and Bonds tops this list. Not just because the only time he ever hit more than 49 home runs was when he reached 73 in 2001, but also because of the numerous allegations that Bonds used chemical help to reach late-career highs. Whether baseball or its fans want to admit it, these last 15 years will forever be viewed as the steroids era. Some say Bonds is being unfairly picked on. Maybe, but remember, the lab he used, BALCO, was the one the federal government raided. Bonds' name was front and center in the BALCO investigation and it's front and center among a large faction that simply does not believe he is the new home run king.

-- Pedro Gomez

I will acknowledge Barry Bonds for what he has done: hit more home runs than anyone in history. It is a fascinating accomplishment, one that's worthy, on some level, of celebration. We have never taken records away in baseball history, and we should not take this one away unless we're prepared to take away a whole bunch of records and achievements during this era. We shouldn't put an asterisk next to it, either. There already is -- and always will be -- an imaginary asterisk next to this era. We should do what baseball has always done with its records and controversies: attach a story to them, and then let our best baseball fans -- they believe something fishy went on here -- decide how to recognize this achievement. As for Hank Aaron, he no longer will have the most home runs of anyone in history, but his legacy will not be lessened. Bonds' chase has given us another chance to celebrate the greatness of Aaron's career, and the strength of his purpose. His legacy might even be strengthened because, as far as we know, he hit 755 home runs naturally, legally and honestly.

-- Tim Kurkjian

The biggest tragedy of the steroids era is that it has robbed us of the magic -- the magic of the greatest numbers in sports. People used to walk down Main Street -- in your town, in any town -- and hear those numbers rattling around their brains. They knew what 60 meant. And 61. And 714. And 755. They weren't just baseball numbers. They were milestones from our entire culture. You didn't have to be some geeky baseball fan to know them. Women and kids and grandmothers knew them. They were numbers so powerful, you could hear the home run calls in your head if you listened hard enough. No other sport had any numbers like them. And no one should ever underestimate the importance of that. It's because of what those numbers used to mean that No. 756 and the man who hit it are still enough to make that home run a momentous news event. But it's what we've lost that's the bigger story, to me. We've lost the ability to witness these moments and hear our hearts thumping, or feel our emotions flowing. Too many people now are cynical about what just happened and why it happened for these numbers to feel the same again. And not just 756. All of them.

-- Jayson Stark

Whew, I feel beter already.

A Suggestion

2007-08-02T22:53:00.000-05:00

Inspired by the prospect of another weekend in the woods of Mississippi battling orcs and dragons, I simply wish to suggest that perhaps the reader do something they would not normally.

It just makes life fucking better.

When you're done, perhaps you could leave a little note describing the fun you had? Just a thought.

I'm Giddy

2007-08-01T22:43:00.001-05:00

I'm going to be a part owner in a professional sports team. Some of you might have received an email from me a little while back regarding a chance to purchase part of an English soccer team and already have an idea of what I'm talking about. For those of you who did not or simply deleted without reading, let me explain.

A group of guys in England got together and decided it would be really neat if they did something similar to what the Green Bay Packers did when they first formed up: have a team owned by Average Joe's. They figured they would need about 50,000 people paying around 75 dollars, U.S. in order to make a bid on a lower-level club. So, they started their own website trying to sign up the target number. It got out in the media and low and behold 53,000+ registered. So, yesterday, they began to take payments from everyone, and I was one of them.

But the really big news is that four teams have already approached the group about a possible takeover. This means that I'm essentially a hair's breadth away owning part of a football club. The excitement is killing me.

Now, I know it could turn out to be a mess. Everything is being put to a vote, from who the coach and players will be to the game-day strategy. Weekly fiascos probably will ensue. But I don't really give a shit.

The idea of owning part of something so real is just enthralling to me. The notion that I can say that the guys I'm wactching are literally "my team" sends my heart aflutter. Not to mention that this demonstrates my point of the great unifying nature of sports. People from all over the world have sent in their money already.

And it's not too late if anybody else wants to join. Check out http://www.myfootballclub.co.uk/
I salivate at the thought of co-owning a team with my friends. Seriously, it costs less than a 100 bucks.

Das Fed

2007-07-31T20:29:00.000-05:00

On Monday, a client took a plea bargain at the last minute, relating to various drug and gun charges the U.S. Attorney's office had brought against him. My co-counsel and I are figuring that he's probably looking at between 25 and 30 years when he's sentenced. Now what might prompt a 30-year old man to take the all that time, rather than roll the dice at trial?

Well, early last week, the actual U.S. Attorney, i.e. the one appointed by the president, sent notice to my co-counsel that the government would be seeking a sentence enhancement in the case. If convicted, my client would be looking at a mandatory minimum of life. The reasoning offered was that the U.S. Attorney wanted to start sending a strong message to those who sold crack cocaine.

My client's black. I know a lot has been written about the race and class implications of the Federal Sentencing Guidelines when it comes to drugs, and I'm not even going to bother adding my redundant voice to that, except to say something even more worn. It's always difficult to actually witness an inequity about which one has spent considerable time studying and reading. So, as a way of therapy, I'm going to ask that anyone who has had a similar situation and feeling to the above, leave a comment. As my mom says, misery loves company.

Don't Pet Sweaty Things: Tom Snyder, 1935-2007

2007-07-31T18:50:00.000-05:00

Radio and television personality Tom Snyder died of complications arising from his battle with leukemia Sunday, according to reports in Monday's news. Snyder is most remembered as the host of NBC's "The Tommorrow Show," which this writer is unfortunately too young to have viewed. Luckily, I did have the chance to see his return to television in 1995 when he began a few year stint as the host of the "The Late, Late Show," and instantly I was captured.

Snyder ran a show different from most on during those hours. There was no live studio audience. He would sit in front of a backdrop of Los Angeles and just talk to the camera, which would pan in so close that the viewer could clearly see Tom had been a smoker for quite a number of years. The discussion ranged from the news to the latest Hollywood gossip, from the earth-shattering to the trivial. But whatever it was, Snyder covered it in such a way that you felt as if you were having a conversation with your best friend. He was funy, serious, mischevious, intelligent, and just what a great entertainer should be.

What also set him apart from many of the monkeys on late night was that he could also fucking interview. What some (cough...Jay Leno...cough) don't understand is that in order to really make an interview worthwhile to watch is that you have to listen to the answers which come our of your subject's mouth. It sounds basic but so many people just don't do this. Fortunately, Snyder did. He also demonstrated his genius by having the person sit a couple of feet away with nothing in between them. The setting was certainly more intimate, and the results were terrific. His rewardwas to score some big ones: John Lennon, Charles Manson, and Johnny Rotten.

He didn't last long on national t.v. in the 1990's, just 3-4 years. His product was as distinctive as his laugh, but it was probably also his undoing. In a time where people want to think less and less about what they consume through their eyeballs, Snyder's show no doubt commanded too much from Joe Schmoe. Too bad. CBS replaced him with Craig Kilborn and a traditional late-night set. Blech. Oh well, maybe one of his old, smoldering butts will burn the place down.

"Fire up a colortini, sit back, relax, and watch the pictures, now, as they fly through the air."

Sunshine

2007-07-29T13:06:00.000-05:00

In order to get away from everthing, I will often times go see a movie late at night and that's exactly what I did yesterday. I was struggling to find something until I saw that the new Danny Boyle picture had finally gotten here. With the exception of the god-awful adaptation of The Beach, I've really enjoyed Boyle's films: Millions, Shallow Grave, Trainspotting, and my personal favorite, 28 Days Later. (Hey, it's got zombies in it. What else do you expect me to say?) He has also exposed me to a couple of my favorite actors in Ewan McGregor and Cillian Murphy.

I was beginning to get excited, but also a little anxious, too. I knew that it was science fiction, and so often that can go terribly wrong. I was really hoping not to be disappointed. As it turned out, I had nothing to worry about.

The movie focuses on a group of astronauts who are trying to re-ignite the sun after some sort of scientific anomaly has caused it to lose energy. It has spectacular special effects, with Boyle affectly using the contrast between light and darkness. But it also largely character driven as well, with a surprising acting turn by Chris Evans, who up to this point I thought was simply capable of making smart-ass comments.

Additionally, the movie has all the essential elements of good sci-fi: a villian, cool technology, and smart action. Boyle's directing gets you to feel the right emotions at the right time. So, it's not only pretty to look at but smart as well.

He's able to accomplish this with the smart writing of Alex Garland. What his writer does is well is examine the issue of Atheism versus God in the face of a crisis. It's subtle, but adds a nice layer to what otherwise would have been a pretty good popcorn flick.

3/4.

The Lions' Roar

2007-07-29T10:44:00.000-05:00

Too often it seems as if sports are defined by the worst of those who participate. Whether it is because of gambling addicts as referees, animal torturers as quaterbacks, or steroid monsters as 'legends,' it has been difficult to remember why fans treat their favorite athletes as heroes. Or better yet, why sports unite individuals in a way nothing else can.

Ever since I was a wee-thing, I have followed sports. One of my earliest memories is watching a Bear game with my dad at my great-grandfather's home when we were on leave, and him jamming a pennant into my hands after the Monsters of the Midway scored a touchdown. As I grew up, these type of moments are what kept my dad and I together, when many other things did not.

But on a much larger scale than father-son, there is also like nothing like walking into a football stadium or racetrack with 90,000 other people who are all there for the same thing. I have no problems going to events by myself. I know that it's always possible to turn to the person setting next to me and strike up a conversation that could last the whole game.

And why are people so willing to do so? Maybe it is because a game can make a person forget about how shitty their lives are. For a few hours, they can cheer, boo, celebrate and console with their best friends and total strangers. Their first worry is not how the bills are getting paid or when they are going to leave their FEMA trailer. Instead, it is simply whose going to score the touchdown to beat Ole Miss or USC.

***

In international soccer, the world is divided into varying regions. And during the summers in which a World Cup is not held, these regions have their own tournaments. This summer the Asia regional held theirs, and among the teams that participated was the Iraqi National Team.

Not much was expected from them, as Iraq does not have a rich history in international competition. The Middle East is often dominated by Saudi Arabia and Iran. But the team's make-up was an inspiration for a country bogged down in civil war. Shi'ites, Sunnis, Kurds and Christians were all represented. Just going there was a victory in itself.

But then something special started to happen. They won their group and advanced to the knock-out rounds. And earlier this week, they defeated a vaunted South Korean team on penalty kicks to move on to the finals.

Their opponent in the finals was Saudi Arabia. The Saudis, a three-time winner of the competition, are also a perennial World Cup qualifier. The Kingdom pumps a sizeable amount of money into the team and their investment more often than not pays off. So, many figured that today's result was over before the game even started.

Too bad those folk forgot that sometimes miracles actually do happen. The greatest moments in sports are when underdogs win. And today, the ultimate underdog did. In the 71st minute, Iraq's captain headed a ball into the back of the net and the team won 1-0.

The victory doesn't solve much on a political level. At least three members of the team have had relatives killed in the past two months. And the team wore black armbands in memory of the fifty people killed during the celebration of their win over the Koreans. But perhaps it does something even more important.

It shows the Iraqis that not everything they get their hopes up over turns to dust. These atheletes are not politicians, but they seemingly accomplished more in a few weeks than the new government has accomplished in 4+ years. They are good men who were able to put behind them whatever ethnic differences separate their countrymen in order to achieve a common goal. When was the last time you heard that phrase relating to a story coming out of Baghdad?

Duplicity

2007-07-25T21:10:00.000-05:00

When I was in Phoenix last week, my mom gave me a bag of goodies from various cigarette companies. Turns out that Phillip Morris (Marlboro) and R.J. Reynolds (Camel) keep track of their customers' birthdays. The latter sent me one of the brand-new Zippo butane lighters, while the former graced me with a beautiful glass ashtray. Now, Phillip Morris' gift was a bit interesting, considering that only 2 months before, I requested a booklet from them on how to quit smoking. I wouldn't dare suggest that a cigarette company has dual motives behind some of their actions, but this gift was also the first time I've got one from them, besides the bi-weekly coupons.

Little did I know that this would only foreshadow the week's events. My grandfather, Dean, was supposed to attend to the funeral. I was a little anxious at this prospect, considering I haven't said a single, goddamn word to him in eight-plus years after he was just a little "too busy" to celebrate my high school graduation. Well, my worries were quickly dispatched upon arrival, because it turned out that he decided he wasn't going to come after all, citing his "financial position." (But he did send quite a lovely, cheap bouquet of flowers for the services, which my dad threw into the dumpster behind the funeral home. )

If this had been all the shit my grandfather pulled, it just would have been another notch in his belt of asshole-ness. But, reader, it most certainly was not. On the day of the funeral, he placed a call to his daughter, my aunt, Tracy. During the course of the conversation, he queried when she would be moving out of the condo in which she resides. Tracy relayed back to him that she was going to try to stay there. The rest of the conversation went a little something like this:

"Well, how are you going to pay for it?"

"I was wondering if you could help me out?"

Dean once again posited that he wasn't in the "financial position to help out," and "Perhaps, Mike or [this writer] could help you out?" (Another sidenote: This whole "financial position" argument is bullshit. While my family has never been wealthy, Dean himself inherited my great-grandfather's estate, which included my great-great-great-grandfather's, who was a world-renowned painter, having completed a cyclorama for a world fair in Australia.)

Tracy replied, "No fucking way."

Dean shot back with, "Well, your mother isn't around any more to baby you."

Now, some of you might note the irony of a man who abandoned his wife and daughter now questioning the parental methodology employed by the recently-deceased former on the day of her fucking funeral. Tracy sure did. And the conversation, quickly ended with her hanging up.

But the story does not end there. Dean called back. (Final sidenote: I'll give this cocksucker credit. He's got fucking balls.) My aunt refused to pick up, but this didn't keep him from leaving a message, apologizing and claiming that he "didn't mean it that way." I could have set him on fire.

Much like the cigarette companies, what really got to me was the pure devilish way in which he was acting. Dean claimed that he was just trying to be kind and looking out for everyone's best interest, while all the time he was once again trying to just advance his own selfish means. He simply wanted the easy way out. I almost would have prefered he just called up and said, "I'm glad the bitch is dead." That would have been easier to deal with. Funerals suck. Self-centered pricks and funerals blow even worse.

Joyce Collins, 1929-2007

2007-07-24T19:08:00.000-05:00

My grandmother was born on July 25, 1929 to Harry and Grace Boynton in the middle of the cornfields of Iowa. Those who know their history might recognize this was only a few months before the great stock market crash of the same year and the beginning of the Great Depression. As a result, when her brother, Jack, was born a couple of years later, the family had to make some rather difficult choices.

Joyce was sent to live with her Aunt Irene ("Gog") and Uncle ("Poppy") Harold. It is believed that Gog had up to twenty miscarriages during the course of her life and, in fact, had lost two sets of twins. Naturally, she was left without the ability to have children. Gog and Poppy took Joyce in and raised her as their own. Many, myself included, believe my grandmother got the better end of this deal than Jack who stayed with their natural parents. Gog and Poppy were extremely caring and nurturing individuals. And gave her the best life possible during this arduous time in American history.

***

In the early 1950's, Joyce met Dean Collins. They were married for approximately twenty-five years and had two children: Mike, my father, and Tracy, my aunt. Dean left her for what would become his second wife, and while my father was a grown man, Tracy was still a young girl. So, my grandmother became of one of the millions of single mothers during the middle of her life.

Up until July 15th of this year, Tracy had spent every day of her life, minus the occasional vacation and six week marriage, with Joyce. Knowing that life was tough enough for a self-described, "chubby teenage girl," Joyce spent every penny she made on Tracy. Accordingly, Tracy always had the best clothes, make-up, and music of any girl in her school. It was something she gladly did, because as grandma herself admitted, her daughter was the only reason she didn't kill herself after Dean left.

***

Joyce spent much of her life as a book-keeper. But as computers pushed out hand-written ledgers and adding machines, my grandmother decided it was time for career change. She became a in-home care-giver for the infirmed and elderly. By all accounts, this was a profession she should have picked up at early age because all of her clients loved her. Even as her life and health deteriorated, she kept working, giving selflessly when she should have been sipping pina colodas on a beach somewhere.

Part of the reason she never retired was because in 1999 she gained a client very close to her heart: Tracy. My aunt was diagnosed as having MS and my grandmother was the obvious choice to be her caregiver.

But Joyce also worked because she had no other choice. Like millions of Americans, my grandmother was consumed by debt, paying off credit cards with credit cards, taking out as many loans as possible, etc. She had to work to save herself and Tracy.

And never once did she complain or ask for help. In fact, I always got a birthday card with a check. She had survived Dean and she seemed bound and determined to get through this.

***

On July 15, 2007, Tracy called Joyce to check where she was. My grandmother replied that she was out running some errands for Tracy, but would be back in less than twenty minutes. Shortly thereafter, they said they loved each other and hung up.

The coroner believes that my grandmother had an aneurysm, causing her to slump over in her seat and hit a tree head-on with the car. Beginning last year, she started having mini-strokes. The doctors were unwilling to operate because of her age. So, it was thought her time might be limited, but no one expected this. She deserved better.

***

It was widely believed that she never loved again after Dean. But at her funeral, one of the mourners approached me, and identified herself as the daughter of a man I simply knew as Bud. He was ex-CIA, for real. The only thing anyone knew was that he was one of four men sent to the Phillippines in the 1960's, and he was the only one who returned alive. But Bud met my grandmother, long after this was past, and they developed a deep and meaningul friendship. Bud had numerous marriages, and whenever they broke-up, he turned to her.

Bud got cancer and passed away in July of last year. Everyone knew this. What no one knew was that he had asked Joyce to marry him two months prior to that. Her response: "You wouldn't marry me for all of these years, It's too late now." That was her.

***

For various reasons, I really didn't know my grandmother until college. But I loved her. And I hurt in a way now I never would have expected. Life will go on. It'll just be a little less complete.

"I don't think there's any point in being Irish if you don't know that the world is going to break your heart eventually."

--- Pat Moynihan, upon learning of JFK's death.

Thank You David Chase

2007-06-10T22:45:00.000-05:00

The last time we physically saw Tony Soprano he was breathing. But the debate among the fans seems to be whether by the time the credits rolled that was still the case. All that I know is that my favorite show is done (for the time being) and I loved every minute of it.

For those of you who didn't see the finale, the last few shots are of several suspicious looking fellows entering a restaurant while Tony, Carmela, and AJ are enjoying a basket of onion rings. One of them gets up to go to the bathroom, another reads the paper, and the last two are at a jukebox. Meadow is outside trying to parallel park and getting rather flustered with how poorly it is going. She is just coming into the restaurant when the screen goes completely to black for a few seconds and then the credits roll.

Now, I really don't want to sit here and bore non-fans with minutiae because there are more universal themes I want to touch on. But based upon certain foreshadowings, occurrences in the last scene, plotlines, and just the overall tone of the show, what the blackness represents is most certainly arguable. And to me that demonstrates why this show was beautiful, intelligent, and a masterpiece.

I would like to think by the end David Chase realized what he had created. It was a family made up by everyone who stayed up all hours of the night watching the box sets, who had friends over Sunday to eat and view, who talked about what was going to happen and what it all meant. But
perhaps most importantly it was made up by all of us who invested ourselves into these characters as if they were our actual loved ones.

And if Chase came to that understanding, maybe he also knew that we were all entitled to write our own ending. Maybe that guy walks out of the bathroom and pops Tony in the temple. Or maybe, like so much of the show, it is smoke-and-mirrors, made to get us thinking about the possibilities which never materialize, and Tony keeps going on and on, like the Journey song playing in the background says. Other than Chase, who really knows? And isn't that really beautiful in its own right?

There are moments in life when imagining what may come beats the resolution. And in fact, can't what actually happens seem somehow less meaningful because any mystery there was is now taken away? I hope maybe this was going through Chase's mind as he penned the final scenes. And that he knew better than to give a definitive ending to a show which was never really about that.

To me the show was art. And like great pieces, some action was visible and obvious. But the real awe-inspiring aspects lay hidden within, waiting to be found. Like a painting, it gave the viewer possibilities, but was unconcerned with always providing answers. For it knew that people had a right to their own dreams and hopes. It knew that it was a starting point to immerse oneself in. And that while truth was reflected in it, it provided a way for people to think about something else besides their shitty lives.

I'll miss it deeply.

A Battle for America's Soul

2007-06-05T19:46:00.000-05:00

Many have tried, but none have succeeded. Since 2001, one man has ruled with an iron fist, slaying anyone who might try to rise up and challenge his authority. Who is this modern day King Arthur? He is Takeru "Tsunami" Kobayashi, and, as his nickname suggests, he leaves bodies strewn in his wake when he falls upon the land of Nathan's Hot Dog Eating Contest.

Held every Fourth of July on Coney Island, the Contest is the Super Bowl of the International Federation of Competitive Eating's season. It is a crowning achievement to win this prestigious event and a source of national pride when the champion heralds from within your borders. And for many years, Americans could walk around with swollen chests knowing that a hero rested within it's borders. And heroes they all were. Men (and I say that word in the manliest of ways) such as Frank "Large" Dellarosa and Mike "The Scholar" Devito, who could average a healthy 20 dogs in 12 minutes.

But then in 1997, we avid followers were given a glimpse of what lay on the Eastern horizon. For it was in that year, the Japanese struck American soil for the second time in the twentieth century, when Hirofumi Nakajima sauntered in and put down 24 and 1/2. An American nightmare was upon us. And we had no idea how frightening it would become.

***

July 4, 2001. An uneasy air hung above the crowd at Coney Island that day. Since Nakajima won in 1997, only once had the winner of the contest come from the land of the sleeping tiger. And in fact the previous year saw a clean sweep of the top three spots by Japanese competitors.
But there was a sense of anxious hope among the Yanks, for Japan had sent a beanpole of a rookie to do business that year. Clearly, it was our time to return to glory. The clock started, and Americans hung on to the edge of their couches with bated breath, waiting to exhale in jubilant exultation. The moment never came.

***

50. This is the number of hotdogs Takeru Kobayashi consumed that July 4th. The closest competitor was 19 behind. America was crushed. Children, and Jesus, wept. Nobody had ever seen anything like it. People asked openly, "With such power as that, how long can this man-beast rule the competitive eating world?" The answer appeared to be for as long as Kobayashi wants.

For the following four years, Kobayashi went unchallenged. Left and right, the bodies of lesser men piled up around his slender frame. He seemed gracious enough, and maybe even a little endearing. I even heard people inquire into whether it was possible for Uncle Sam to perform a little trans-Pacific adoption. Clearly, some Americans had driven themselves to delirium with such traitorous thoughts.

But it was easy to understand why this might be the case. Kobayashi set a pace every year that was quite simply un-human. And many had to wonder why God would chose to let loose a second eating monster on the earth.

So, it was with a "here-we-go-again" attitude that many Americans approached the 2006 Contest. And then something amazing happened.

***

June 2, 2007. A young man from the Land of Fruits and Nuts awoke in his Arizona hotel room. He understood the significance of where he was: the beginning of the long road to redemption. For this was the day of the Southwest Regional of the annual Nathan's Hot Dog Eating Contest. He couldn't help but think back to the events of last year, but he also knew the memories could not overwhelm him or defeat would be certain.

***

July 4, 2006. Another Contest had came and went, and the result was the same as it had been the previous five years: Kobayashi triumphed over all. In fact, he had set a world record by eating 53 and 1/2 hot dogs. Except this time there was a difference. At the end, the Tsunami was little more than a tropical depression, as he nearly collapsed in exhaustion. Rather than winning winning by ten or fifteen, he barely escaped. For Joey "Jaws" Chestnut, hailing from San Jose, California, had gorged himself on 52. The clouds parted from before the sun and hope returned.

***

As Chestnut entered the site of the Southwest Regional, a hush fell over the crowd. It was the type of silence that comes over a people when they realize that they are witnessing someone who can be truly great. It's the type of reverence reserved for a man one-part Rocky Balboa and the other Godzilla-killer. Stopwatches were set and the call was given.

The result was never in question, for Chestnut proved that he was no one time fluke. When the count was over, the results were announced to the waiting crowd. 59. A new world record. The place erupted. While not at the competition, Kobayashi had been defeated in spirit. His mark was no more.

"I always thought there was a limit - a limit to the human stomach and a limit to human willpower - but I guess not," remarked one witness. Truer words were never spoken.

***

As the months become weeks, the weeks, days, a crowd of unheard proportions will gather at Coney Island to witness. The hopes of nations rest on the shoulders of two men. But for the first time in a while, a smell will be in the air: the aroma of American victory. It is almost as if God, himself, is sending signals, for Chestnut will be twenty-three, the same age as Kobayashi in 2001.

July 4, 2007. 6:00 Eastern Standard Time. ESPN 2. Destiny awaits. Where will you be? Let the games begin.

U-S-A. U-S-A. U-S-A...

I Cut My Hair

2007-05-21T08:54:00.000-05:00

No, really, I did. And I love it.

All Killer, No Filler

2007-05-07T08:25:00.000-05:00

On April 28th and 29th, I attended my first-ever Jazzfest in New Orleans. For those of you who are not familiar with it, the event takes place over two weekends, traditionally towards the end of April and the beginning of May. Located at a racetrack in the middle of the city, the music ranges from jazz and blues to rock and hip-hop and can be heard from any of the about eight stages. I managed to check out three.

First up, Calexico. Hailing from Tucson, Arizona, the band, who look like your typical “indier-than thou” folk, play great rawk music, and add a touch of their home-state, too. The group includes a trumpet player and a drummer who throws in some maracas from time to time. Their hour-and-fifteen minute set was lively featuring mostly songs off their more recent albums and made me forget about everything except the fact I was listening to a great band. As the girl behind me said, “They’re, like, my favs, now.”

Next, Ludacris. Let me preface this by saying that I really, really like this guy. I think his rhymes are innovative and funny, and if here were ever able to do something serious, it would be worth of five mics. Unfortunately, Luda demonstrated the many problems with seeing live rap, in that too often it takes on the persona of All-Star Karaoke. Since most beats are machine-made, hip-hop artists often times just have their DJ’s put on an instrumental track and then rap over it. Luda not only did this, but also showed up late and didn’t swear, as “there were little kids in the audience.” I made it about halfway through his set, before I left highly disappointed. To his credit, he only performed his hits, including “Roll Dem Bones,” but it was still sad to think that he couldn’t keep me entertained enough to stick it out.

Finally, Jerry Lee Lewis. Born in Faraday, Louisiana, Lewis is easily in his mid-seventies, and at this point in his life has about the mobility of a tree firmly rooted in the earth. And there I was depending on him to bring me out of my Ludacris hangover from the previous day. By I all estimations, I should have been let down again. But then he stepped out and proved his nickname, because he FUCKING KILLED. Playing about ten of his best pieces, Lewis demonstrated the beauty of music. All great art transcends and Jerry Lee’s piano playing does just that. At his age, this motherfucker is still reaching all of the octaves with a goddamn mic-stand in between his arms.

It reminded quite a bit of when I saw Ray Charles. The acoustics could have been better, and both of the performers were clearly in the twilight of the lives and careers. But they were still performers. They knew what the crowd wanted, gave it to them, and made them leave wishing more was to come. Great musicians evoke all of your emotions during a show and make you believe that when you exit life is somehow never going to be better. Beautiful. Fuckin’ Beautiful.

It was also during Lewis’ performance the coup de grace of the Festival took place. My dad and I were standing together when two guys decided to light up a joint. Mike didn’t realize it, because he turned to me and said, “Is that, um…?” I responded simply, “Yeah.” Several more minutes passed and then my father started looking around. I don’t know exactly the following conversation happened, but I swear the following took place:

“Smells pretty good, eh?”

“I thought it smelled like it was pretty close by.”

“It’s close all right. Right behind you in fact.”

Awkward chuckle.

“Feel free to partake, if you would like, sir.”

I wish I could report that my dad hit it like a champ three or four times, and that the last time I saw him he was heading for the Lake to admire its many wonders. But he declined, and we turned around and rejoined Lewis.

***

In addition to the live music, artists from all over the country, including Native American reservations, display their work. Most of it is rather expensive, but original enough that it makes touring the grounds more than worthwhile. And then there’s the food. Like the art and music, it’s eclectic as well, from Cuban dishes to traditional Louisiana fare. My favorite, the Sweet Potato Cookies, were so mouthwatering good that I made sure to pick up a whole batch before I left. Bottom Line: Much like The Killer himself, Jazzfest made me so happy that I wondered I ever lived without it.

A Brief Memoir

2007-04-30T19:26:00.000-05:00

(NOTE: This post was supposed to be about my time down in New Orleans for Jazzfest. But after today, it's hard to even really think about it. Also, the following should be viewed in this context: (1)I have no personal life because I couldn't devote the energy for when it didn't work out.(2)I can't really ever relax. This past weekend should have been a good time, but I would get lost in thinking about different aspects of cases. My mom would ask, "Are you okay?" Truthfully, I would say, "Yeah, I'm just thinking." In the end, I'm a 25 year old parent to 20 people. What else should consume my thoughts?)

My day began sitting in court two-and-a-half hours waiting to be called for an interdiction hearing. Rather than listening and watching the other attorneys, I mostly just sat there thinking about all of the other work, I really needed to be doing. When the judge finally got around to my case, I barely said three words before he called opposing counsel and myself up and told us to do some more work and come back next week. He was being fair, but it's also a case into which I've put over a hundred hours or literally $10,000 worth of my time. So, it was a little frustrating to be told that I hadn't done enough yet and return when he deemed it sufficient.

I hadn't yet arrived to my office when I received a call from a client essentially telling me that his employer was getting ready to fire him, because he filed a discrimination complaint with the EEOC. I had warned him this might happen, but still it's a little tough to deal with when it is actually going. We worked out a plan of action which I think will diffuse that time bomb for a while.

When I got back, I checked my mail and calls. Everything seemed fairly calm, but I needed to get to lunch with my partners. I was hoping for some relaxation as we traded stories about our weekends. Instead, we got into a pretty solid discussion about which of our cases are the shittiest.

Returned from that only to have a deluge of phone calls from three clients wanting a whole bunch of crap done. While they babbled, I mostly thought about ways I could hang myself with my own phone cord. And then the real delight came at around 3:00.

A woman came into our offices to discuss a number of incidents. One involved her ex-husband molesting her, at the time, seven year old son. I read the police report which described how he used to sleep in the same bed with the child and touch his genitals. The kid was traumatized enough to fucking tell people that his father and him were going to have a baby together and drew stick-figure pictures of the three of them.

After I was done looking throught the horrific drawings, I went and visited with my new juvenile client. Since the last time I saw him, their house has had the electricity and phone turned off and the carpet is now covered with trash, giving the place a nice aroma of rotting food. The kid, who is 14, has no priors, but something is clearly now going on with him. A friend of his came in and grabbed the Mighty Morphin Power Rangers booksack that my client had been carrying. Something valuable was clearly in it, and my first thought was of the movie Fresh. And I wondered if he was a runner for some local.

I got back to the office, spent some time researching a hopeless argument, and then started typing this. I get to look forward to going home tonight to a cat that hates me right now, and then repeating all of this again tomorrow. It should be just as cheerful considering I'm doing a trial prep for a gun charge in Federal Court. My client is assuredly going to lose and get the maximum of 120 months. He's got 7 kids and a wife. But on the bright side, he's only 37, so at least he'll be out before 50.

My point in telling all of this is not to purely garner sympathy. But to let you know that for most of us young lawyers doing it ourselves, this is what every day is like. I work myself to the point of exhaustion, go to bed, get up, eat a pop-tart and go back to it. Every goddamned day.

8. Pulp Fiction

2007-04-24T17:54:00.000-05:00

This review will be one of the shortest, because if you've seen it, you know why it's here. If you haven't, the only thing I can say is, "FUCKING WATCH IT." There isn't one Tarantino movie I wouldn't watch ad infinitum, and this would seem to be his best (although if Glorious Bastards is made, it might give it a run for it's money). The actors click. The story is brillantly structured. The direction is amazing. And there are just so many small, nice touches, such as Butch keying Vincent's car. Genius all around.

The greatest compliment a movie can receive is that it stands the test of time. For those of you about my age, did you realize that this movie was made in 1994? I was in eighth grade when I saw this motherfucker. I thought it was great then, and today it seems like cinematic gold. And so many movies ripped it off. For those film buffs out there, just think of the movies you saw, good or bad, which borrowed some aspect of this pic. They're too numerous to even begin a list.

And what makes it really great is that he never went back to the well. Tarantino could have made Parts II, III, IV...L, and he's so talented they all probably would have been good. But Tarantino realized what he had captured and was smart of enough to let it be. So, let me add my voice to one of the millions already and declare, "Bravo, Quentin. You made a masterpiece... and thanks for not thinking it was the only thing you could do."

On a side note, a close friend of mine and I had a great discussion about Cho and the topic of my last article. She certainly got me to reconsider some things. Not about whether NBC should have shown it, but how it was presented overall. So, look for a follow-up post after her terrific insight.

The Peacock and Virginia Tech

2007-04-22T11:41:00.000-05:00

I awoke this morning to find various talking heads discussing how outrageous it was that NBC chose to air footage of Cho Seung-Hui's rambling diatribe the night they received it. The CNN production team put together a nice little package of the parents pleading with numerous news organizations to stop showing the clips. And all of the meadia members of the panel, except one, agreed. I don't remember much of what happened after that because my brain exploded.

Towards the beginning of the Iraq war, the Pentagon announced that it was going to severely limit the media's access to the coffins of soldiers which had been sent back stateside. The press, rightly, was up-in-arms over the decision. The journalists realized that, no matter how hard those images might be for the families to swallow, the world had a right to see the consequences of war. Furthermore, they also understood that some percentage of the population also wanted to witness it. Simply, the media recognized that deaths resulting from a conflict thousands of miles away was news, and they had a right to document it as such.

Flash forward to the events of this week. NBC received a package in the mail from the man who went on the the largest shooting spree the U.S. has ever seen. Knowing that people would want to see it and tune it, they put it on the air. As Brian Williams said, "By just about any definition, this is news," and they presented it as such. NBC and its cable outlet, MSNBC, made an editorial decision that at no time would the video and pictures take more than ten percent of an hour. And the watchdogs who keep track of these things seem to indicate that they followed this self-imposed standard. In other words, it was not in some sort of 'loop,' as many critics contended.

The whipping NBC has taken since it made its decision appears to be nothing more than a smoke-screen to cover up the harder truth that people are too shy to confront: Victims of a tragedy have no right to attempt to set the news agenda. They have every right to ask people to grieve with them, but they can not be allowed to tell people what is news. And, I'm sorry, but those tapes and pictures are just that. At the very least, the packet tells the story of what happens all too often when people with severe mental infirmaties are not taken care of by the system. While I can certainly understand why it is hard for the families to understand, other Americans do see it as newsworthy and have a right to have it at least presented to them.

The legal system recognized a long time ago that victims should at times be some of the last people to influence certain decisions. It's the reason that criminal trials are stylized, "State of .... versus....," rather than "Person X versus Person Y." Objectivity should rule the legal word, and journalism as well.

Taken to the logical conclusions of what the Tech families are saying, should the History Channel stop airing World War II footage, because we still have Holocaust survivors? Should every single bookstore in America be picketed because they have a copy of Mein Kampf on their shelves? Should Apocalypse Now and The Deerhunter not be lauded, because they were made so soon after Vietnam? Should the news just stop covering the Iraq War?

The answer is of course not. The world has a right to see what influences and shapes the events around them. While one may not personally care for it, that does not mean it fails to shed light and understanding about what happened. And truth be told, I shudder to think of a media which bases all of its content on what people like.

A Conversation With The Good Doctor

2006-12-21T19:47:00.000-06:00

A man used this to help him take his life. I'm hoping that it gives me some instead. Football season's almost over. Baseball season starts soon.

Loss and Return

2006-12-14T23:41:00.000-06:00

There are a few moments in life when people can start over. Transgressions are washed away. Memories of the past are no longer automatically tied to the present state of the individual.

Tomorrow should be that day for a small group whose lives are now forever bound by an act, still unclear, which took place a handful of years ago. The destruction which took place can now finally be repaired. No longer will artificial barriers keep them from confronting their selves and each other.

But more importantly, tomorrow is when a son, brother, and friend will come home. To be held and nurtured. To throw a baseball and shoot a basketball. To gamble and hunt. To laugh and cry. To begin anew.

I love you.

(Tryin' To) Do The Right Thing

2006-12-11T18:32:00.000-06:00

Before I went into practice, every attorney I talked to said that I needed to be prepared to give more than legal advice to my clients. Attorneys are considered by their clients to be counselors, priests, minor-miracle workers, etc. Fine, I thought, I feel as if I'm a pretty good friend to have, and that's probably what most people need, so I'm set. Well, was I fucking off, to say the least.

Clients do not just need lawyers, but grief therapists, mental health professionals, financial analysts, and parents, just to name a few. They need someone who they can ask a question about anything and get an answer back that they not only want to hear, but can actually implement. Obviously, a single attorney is not qualified to even begin all of these tasks. (I find myself struggling to answer all of their legal questions.) But this fact actually matters little to those who come to us. As it should.

But it puts lawyers in an extremely difficult position. Often the demands made upon them by clients cut into the time they would be spending researching and writing, the hallmarks of any good, compentent lawyer. Not only does a lawyer feel the stress associated by having to fix their clients' problems, but it is compounded when they realize that after they are done solving one dilemma, they must attend to the routine, everyday business an attorney is expected do.

What makes this all the more frustrating are situations like what happened with me today. A client wanted to meet. It was unscheduled, but necessary because of some recent events in which she had been involved. I had other work that had to get done, but penciled her in for the afternoon. We ended up meeting, and I gave her advice on what she needed to do with an aspect of her life. I didn't feel as if I was being paternalistic, but simply trying to convey that her behavior not only threatened her case, but was endangering the relationships she has with her children. Looking back on it, it may have seemed forward, but because of what she had done, I felt it was called for.

To make a long story short, there is now a probability we might lose her. I made a judgment call based on what I felt was in her best interests as a person and not simply in the litigation. Apparently, though, I gave her an answer that not only could she not implement, she didn't even want to begin to hear. My partners backed my decision to confront even before all of this occurred, but I was still left feeling hurt.

I stepped in a role to which I am often called. And rather than doing the best thing for the case and making her happy, I did the best thing for her self. It goes back to something I wrote in the last post: the law is a business now. But what I left out is not only do lawyers perpetuate it, but so do a lot clients. The best-intentioned client can say money doesn't matter, but when those dollars become a greater reality, it's a whole different ballgame. All of a sudden their case becomes a mortgage payment, a new car, or some better clothes. They no longer really want that advisor, but a "yes" man. And when that happens, doing the right thing can become a whole lot harder.

Welcome to the Law

2006-11-12T18:09:00.000-06:00

I understand sometimes why people think lawyers, particularly personal injury ones, are monsters. And I fear that this essay will not go far in changing any opinions. But there is such a striking similarity between representing plaintiffs and another one of my favorite past-times that I can't help but think it's worth noting. The past-time? Gambling.

I love to gamble. Cards and casino games aren't really my favorites. What I'm hooked on are spreads/lines/points. The closer, the better and the more money I'm willing to put up. Large spreads are trouble, unless you KNOW you got a sure thing. Of course the more money you're willing to dump, the more satisfying your payoff will be.

Personal injury litigation operates on pretty much the same principles. Law firms for plaintiffs are expected to front all of the money for their clients. They get stuck with the tab for experts, tests, etc., especially if they don't win. If your client recovers, you can take out the costs from the verdict. But if the defendant prevails, you get nada, except the (un)healthy debt you've just managed to rack up.

Therefore, it's in the attorney's best interest to sit down when a case comes across their desk, and look at it much the same as a weekend-handicapper would. If it's going to be close and you got a good shot, then perhaps you think about laying it all out. If it's looking risky, then you skip it and go down the table to the next game. But of course you always shake your head when somebody else nails it, gets the payday, and you think, "Man, I should have picked it."

And the defendant is most definitely the house. Chances are they got more money than you and will go to any lengths, including bending the rules, to insure that at the end of the night you are the one with your pockets picked.

The sad fact is that instead of being spokesmen for our clients, the current state of the legal world has forced attorneys to become advocates for themselves. Firms, especially, new ones, can be made or broken by one verdict or settlement. We are gambling not only with the lives of our clients, but also our entire financial well-being.

And much like gambling, the law has become a business, instead of being the profession it once was. I don't like it, but it's true. The relationship between plantiff lawyers and defense ones mirrors that of bettor and bookie. Neither really like each other, but both know the other is necessary to get their payoff.

It all makes me wish I had been born during the time of Clarence Darrow and William Jennings Bryan, when lawyers knew for who and what they were arguing. Instead, I'm left trying to figure out how long I can do it for before I get sick of it and myself. Like all degenerate gamblers.

9.(tie) The Hours/United 93 (aka CCS' Head Explodes)

2006-10-22T16:41:00.000-05:00

You want to know why The Hours is on here? Because every man I know hates it, and every woman loves it. And it leads to guys writing the movie off as "gay," "boring," and "typical feminist bullshit." Too bad they don't actually pay attention to what the movie is saying about gender roles in our society and then try to be better boyfriends/husbands.

I have had more than one woman tell me that The Hours nails it on the head about how they feel society tells them to behave. Moore's and Kidman's storylines focus around the everyday routine of life which leaves them without meaning and unsatisfied. They cannot be who they want because some outside force (in Moore's case marriage) is impeding them. Moore's act is particularly moving, because it makes you question exactly how many women have given/are giving up the lives and dreams they want so that the hubby and children can pursue their own. Even in today's society where more women are working, how do many often spend their "free-time"? By going after their personal hopes? Or picking up after the kids, doing laundry, and cooking dinner?

The movie centers around the nobility of the fairer sex, and does so by having Ed Harris' character appear in the Streep portion of the film. Harris, who is a poet dying of AIDS, does nothing but lament the injustice of his fate. He has reason to, but he also does what most men do in any relationship with a woman. He makes it all about him. It is his feelings which must come first. Everything must be done on his timetable. While Moore suffers silently in her arc and the audience truely feels for her, Harris takes away any sympathy you might have for his character by behaving selfishly. Moore sets the example, Harris bitches and moans. In other words, The Hours does in fact seem to hit male/female dynamics square on the head and makes it in my opinion one of the best movies of the last 20 years. Not to mention the top-rate acting and the genuine writing.

(In case you think I'm full of shit, go ask a women, who isn't your girlfriend or wife, how they feel about the movie/issue.)

And then there's United 93. It's too bad that the handful of you who read this probably haven't seen it. I can understand why. We live in a country ran by a poor sole of an individual whose administration has politicized 9/11 to such a degree it now makes us feel rather cynical about the whole event. But before you discard Greengrass' fucking masterpiece, try to remember how you felt on that day and the ones immediately following it. Think about the despair, fear, and unknowing.

Moviemaking is an artform. And when done well, it should be commended. But along the lines of why people don't watch the techinal Oscars, they also don't go to the theater for that reason either. People watch a film to be moved, entertained and touched. Most couldn't give fuck what sort of filter was used. The just want to laugh, cry, or see Michael Bay blow something to kingdom come. Maybe it's not intellectual, but it is uniquely human. What makes United 93 great, though, is that it combines the best of both these worlds, and gives each the appropriate amount of respect.

Rather than try to overly-sentimentalize the victims, Greengrass takes almost the opposite approach. He shoots most of the movie in real-time and gives it the feel of a documentary. He rarely uses names, tells little to nothing about the individual characters, and relegates the most "Hollywood" moments to footnote status. ("Let's roll" is barely audible.) He just kind says, "Here it is. You decide." In spite of this, he is still able to pack a tremendous amount of emotion into the film.

I kept having to remind myself, "The plane crashes. You know how this ends." Yet, Greengrass was able to time after time keep getting my hopes up that maybe I just mis-remembered what actually happened that day five years ago. And he was able to send me crashing down with the plane, when they passengers weren't able to regain control, even though I know nothing about them. What allowed him to accomplish this was that he showed you that these people didn't fight back for love of country, political party, or reason to go to war. They did it for themselves, each other, and their families. The passengers sought to regain the plane for the same reasons you, yourself, probably would.

And he did all of this without having to play a single aspect of it up (Attention Oliver Stone.) He knew his audience would be already moved, he just had to make sure you knew why. Never once does he try to give anyone hero status. Yet, by the end you feel as if they all do. It is apolitical, objective, and fair. But most of all, it is representative of all the reasons why we should remember what happened that day.

How Do You Have A Job?

2006-10-12T15:43:00.000-05:00

I'm a freshly minted lawyer, and practice with a couple of other people. Two of us were filling out paperwork today for malpractice insurance. Now, the company we're going through has only one set of forms for everybody. So, whether you've lost your carrier 50 times or just starting out, everyone has to answer the same shitty questions.

This becomes important because most of the questions assume that you've had some experience. Unfortunately, that's not us. And makes the question about how much of your billable hours are devoted to varying areas of the law a little difficult to answer. So, I call the wonderful people up to ask what the hell are we supposed to do. And the conversation went a little something like this:

"Hello, this is Black-Hole-of-Life, how may I help you?" in the the least helpful voice ever.

"Um, yes, Black-Hole-of-Life, I'm a new attorney with a new firm, and I was wondering if there was an additional/special application we should fill out as many of these questions do not seem applicable to us?"

"No, there is only the one application."

"Um, well, okay. The reason I asked is because of the question regarding percentage of practice. How do you suggest we fill it out?"

"Well, you should just approximate what you believe they might be."

"Approximate."

"Yes."

Uh-huh. So, let me get this right. The representative for the insurance company just told me to guess on the form I fill out to set my premium. Fan-fucking-tastic. My partner and I could wind up shelling out 6 grand a month, and Black-Hole-of-Life just told me that I might have just as well thrown darts at a board than call her up. What a country. I hate insurance companies.

10.(tie) Menace II Society/Field of Dreams

2006-10-10T12:08:00.000-05:00

Okay, there's actually twelve on the list. (No. 9 is a tie, too.) Let's start with Menace.

It came out in 1993 as a response to John Singleton's Boyz n the Hood. See, the Hughes brothers didn't think that Singleton's pic was tough enough. So, they made their own L.A. gang-banger pic. And what a goddamn response it was, especially since they made this movie when they were 21. It has all of the same elements as Boyz: A born and bred gang-banger, someone thinking about leaving the hood, girlfriends, strong/weak parental figures, cops, and violence. But it is all done at such a dirtier, grimier level, you just feel as if the characters are more human and act/react they same way you would. In other words, Albert and Allen accomplished what they set off to do. Look at the characters themselves.

Clearly, in Boyz, Doughboy, Tre, and Ricky are supposed to represent individual segments of the black population, and while they all interact with each other, Singleton never really lets them go beyond the type of man each is supposed to be. The Hughes Brothers just said fuck it. Everyone's got weaknesses, so why not have our characters show that. Caine is clearly supposed to be their Tre. But unlike Tre, he is also part fucking Thug. Such as when he tells the girl he knocked up that it can't be his kid, because he "had the jimmy-hat on extra-tight." O-Dog, who is supposed to counter Doughboy, actually makes you wonder if Tate was the one who wrote all of NWA's lyrics, as opposed to Cube. Doughboy is tough, but in the end you kind of like him. On the other hand, you fucking fear O-Dog and silently hope that he dies, too afraid to actually say it on the off-chance he might actually come through the goddamn screen.

Finally, the violence. Simply, you knew when it was coming in Boyz, you never did in Menace. You knew Ricky was a dead man, but don't tell me you knew O-Dog was going to shoot the bum who offered to suck his dick and then eat the dude's fucking hamburger. Jesus Christ. Boyz was good and deserved much of the praise it got because it was original. But this movie tops it in every way.

On a lighter note, there's Field of Dreams. I know, some of you are thinking it's just typical Hollywood sentimental schlock. It's not, but I'll get to that in a minute. First and foremost, the movie is about baseball, obviously. And in today's world of Barry Bonds, the film takes on cultural significance simply because of that. Sports has had, and will always have, an important role in the lives of many Americans, and until my generation, baseball was king. This movie serves as a reminder to why that was, and maybe should be again. In it's purest form, baseball is a beautiful sport. It's simplicity and complexity work so well together, it's impossible not to wonder if a more perfect sport has been created. (I argue yes, but I think baseball has a pretty good case.)

Second, the movie is about the 60's and what happened to flower power after Ronald Reagan. A little bit of this story line exists in the relationship between Annie and Ray Kinsella. But it is brought to perfection with James Earl Jones' character, Terrence Mann. Mann, the author of the fictionalized work, The Boat Rocker, is a writer who just always wanted to be that. He seems to have once embraced what the sixties were about, but after having to listen to one too many stories about how people rebelled against their parents, he is now completely burnt-out and living by himself. In the end, I think it works as a beautiful analogy for that time period.

Finally, the movie is about fathers and sons and the reason that I say the movie is more than just sentimental fluff. I saw the movie for the first time when I was young enough to still unquestionably love my father, and thought it pretty good. But it wasn't until I had lived a few more years that I really got it. In the film, you learn that Ray's father had at one time been a pro ball player long before he was born. Costner never really got a chance to know that part of his dad, and only knew him after life had worn him down. Largely because of this, Ray's relationship with his father was strained, culminating in him moving out when he was in his early teens after reading Mann's book and not coming home when his dad became ill. The regret he feels is told through Kinsella lamenting about how he stopped playing catch with his old man and it feels unbelievably real.

My dad and I never got along too well when I reached high school and throughout the time I was in college. But the one thing we always had that we could talk about or bond over was sports. We shot basketball, threw the football, and pitched the occasional baseball. And when we were done with that, we would watch them on television. All of it together. One summer though we didn't talk to each other. Not a single word, June through August.

Field of Dreams ends with Kinsella finding his dad, John, out on the baseball diamond. Ray recognizes him, but his dad does not, or so we're led to believe. They talk for a couple of minutes, with Ray complimenting him on his game and introducing John to his granddaughter. As the older Kinsella turns to leave, Ray goes, "Hey, dad...wanna have a catch?" John agrees, and the movie slowly fades out. I cry every goddamn time. You can probably guess why.

The last shot is of a line of cars, going on for miles, heading towards the diamond. To me, it symbolizes all of the people who wish they could have those moments, like Ray's, back with their parents. I know I want that summer back.

"Is this heaven?"

"No, it's Iowa."

My Top 10 Movies

2006-10-10T10:36:00.000-05:00

Everyone is doing/or has done one of these, so why not me? I also figured that I would select seem which might cause blood pressures to rise (jff-I'm looking at you). So here are the criteria. (1) Movies must have been considered for Oscar nomination from 1987-2006. I started seeing movies at the theater about then, and it covers the last twenty years. It's a substantial block of time, but also one in which I feel it is really fair to compare individual films. All-time lists are mistaken, in my opinion, because styles of directing/acting/writing change. Other art forms seem to recognize this, so why not movies as well? (2) No documentaries, only dramatizations. I love doc.s, but don't really feel its fair to compare the two types. (Sorry Hoop Dreams.) (3) I have to have seen it in the movie theater. Seeing a film on the silver screen is vastly different than seeing it on a T.V. And because I think seeing it with a group of people in a darkened room is just as important sometimes as the movie itself, I'm going to limit the list this way. Why is this significant? I saw the following movies on tape for the first time: The Usual Suspects, Platoon, Born on the Fourth of July, Silence of the Lambs...oh, and Goodfellas.

An Evening Jaunt

2006-10-07T16:21:00.000-05:00

I like to walk around my neighborhood at night as much as possible, because it is rather... interesting. By this I of course mean there are lots of homeless and crazy drunks, sometimes combined into one person. So, it may be a lot of things, but it is rarely boring. And last night was no exception.

I was returning home from a trek up to the Circle K when a group of three, two men and one women, darted across the street and onto the road a few feet in front of me. They were loud, and not really feeling like talking, I kind of hoped they would ignore me. Two of them did, but one had apparently spotted me and determined that I was the sort of chap he could hit up for random, awkard conversation.

"Hey man, where are you off to?" he asked. Instantly I hoped whatever answer I gave him would not be taken as an invitiation to join me for the evening.

"I live down here," I replied.

"Hey man, you smoke that weed?" Apparently, it was immaterial what I was up to, unless the Rice Krispie bar in my bag was actually disguised pot.

"Yeah man I do, but I ain't got any," I said, hoping that this might get rid of him. Unfortunately...

"Ah, man, I hear that. I took a bunch of pills tonight."

"Great." By this point we were stopped in front of the Jack-in-the-Box, and I had a real chance to size him up. About my height, little shorter. Shaved head, cut, and with a ton of ink. All black and white. Kind of sunken eyes. He had a glass in his hand, filled with something. I assumed booze, but it could have been tea. Couldn't really smell anything. We started walking again, mostly so he could catch up with his friends who were a good block or so ahead. When he turned around, I saw that the back of his neck was done. It was a skull, missing a bottom jaw, but with human eyes, and something was coming out of his mouth, but the shirt covered the rest up. The work was good, but it also looked really familiar.

"How long ago these apartments go up?" He asked, gesturing wildly towards the buildings.

"Couple of months ago, bout the time school..."

"Looks like a goddamn high-rise prison with all of the gates."

Thinking about what he had just said, I didn't really have time to absorb it. Because the next thing I knew...

"Hey man, can you hold this?" Giving me little choice not to, I took his glass. And as soon as I had it, the dude was taking off his shirt. And that's when I saw it, and all of a sudden I knew why the skull looked so familiar and why he had made the comment about the apartments.

It was a swastika. And a poorly one done at that. In fact, the art was so shabby it was without a doubt done while homeboy was serving time. He was probably a Brother if he had been to prison, which meant the fellow not only enjoyed getting fucked up, but fucking other people's shit up as well.

I tried not to stare, lest I be accused of being a "fag-it" and getting curbed on my way back from picking up some muchies at ye olde local convience store. But I figured out he was really too messed up to notice. His entire back was covered, and the swastika was the only one which looked like it had been put on him in the joint. I recognized them as all being pretty common for skinheads to wear, since I had seen a lot of the same symbols when I had looked through portfolios before I got my pieces done.

It was at this point several thoughts began running through my head. I don't exactly live in an all-white neighborhood. So, not only did I start thinking about my own safety, but his as well. He may have been an ignorant fuck, but I really preferred not to be a first-hand witness to a goddamn race riot. This didn't seem to cross his mind, at least that's how he acted. But I also noticed that he started walking in more of march, so maybe he knew exactly what he was doing.

I also wondered if he was "true believer" or just ran with the Aryans to survive prison. But just as I started thinking about it, I was really beginning to hope that are paths would be splitting up soon, too.

"Goddamn morons parked all the way down at the Burger King," he turned and said to me.

"Why'd they do that?"

"Beats the fuck outta me, man. Fuckin' mile out of the way. And at goddamn, nigger Burger King." Well, so much for that question. I really wanted to laugh, but I remembered one thing: he could probably kill me with his bare hands, not to mention the glass he held.

So I mustered up an, "Oh yeah?"

"Yep, nigger Burger King." About this time, his friends started to cross over to the B.K., and he followed suit.

"Stay safe, man," he used as a good-bye.

"You too, man, " I answered back.

I really don't know what to make of it. but truth be told, he was the most interesting person I had met in a while. And part of the reason I don't just drive my car into one of the lakes around here. I kind of live for these random moments. there are so many stories out there, some sad, some happy, or in this case, some angry. but whatever it is, they all intrigue me.

ever since I was kid, I've met people this way. for whatever reason, they just come up and start talking. often they are much like the population of my neighborhood, drunk and/or crazy. When I was ten, one homeless guy thought I was his doctor and wanted to know why I hadn't seem him in a while. A month ago, one of the local bums came up and started talking Marx with me. I was in heaven. For being a complete wino, he knew his shit. Had he not been scared off by a cop, I think we would have talked for a while. About two weeks after that, he stopped me in the above-mentioned Circle K parking lot and asked if I wanted to split a case of beer with him. Unfortunately, I had to go back into work, or else I'm pretty sure I would have. In law school, one of my best friends was the janitor. He stayed at my place a couple of weekends. We sat around, drank beer, got stoned, talked classic rock, and passed out to horror movies. And he only talked to me about his life.

i don't know why I listen, or even why they feel as if I'm someone they can talk to. I would to think they see something in me, instead of them just being batshit crazy. I don't really know. but i think i'm better for it. and maybe that's all that really matters. it's enough to keep me walking.

Is Rap Dead?

2006-10-06T19:28:00.000-05:00

Nasir thinks so. Should you? In my head, the jury's still out, which I guess means that I don't think so. But if it isn't, then it certainly is visiting Rock at the farm where all good music goes after it dies. And if it is dead, then tell the 5-0 that it was a suicide.

There's no doubt that rap is certainly in a wee bit of a slump. I haven't checked the numbers for Ludacris, but all of the other major albums this year have vastly undersold what was projected. Take Lupe Fiasco for instance. He had one of the most hyped major label debuts (which included guest spots from Jill Scott and Jay-Z) in recent years. Unfortunately, his name only foreshadowed his first week's sales numbers of 58,000. Are you shitting me? We're fucking less than 10 years removed from when everything coming out of P's basement was going gold or platinum, and this motherfucker can't even crack a hundred grand?!!

Now, I'm not trying to say that numbers are everything, and what's popular is what's best. But for rap/hip-hop I think the sales slump is indicative of a fucking problem. People my age might remember when every time you turned on MTV there was puffy, busta or somebody spitting a rhyme in a video. Now you turn it on and it's some dude wearing eyeliner bitching about how tough life is for white twenty-something year olds.

So, I ask, how did rap all of a sudden lose the incredible momentum it once had? And here's my answer. Rap is struggling right now because of two letters all of the artists are familiar with: O.G. No, not that one, but kind of. When I say it, I mean Overexposed-Gangsterism.

Straight Outta Compton came out in 1988. And there's no doubt it not only is a classic rap album, but also just top-notch music. Period. But while E, Dre, Cube, and who-gives-a-shit-what-the-others-names-were might have single-handedly revolutionized the industry, they were also the catalyst for the despair that all hip-hop fans feel now on some level.

What NWA did was they brought gang-life into everyone's fucking home, including pimply-face white kids from the midwest who thought that bustin' a cap in someone's ass sounded a helluva lot more exciting than detassling corn. The thing is, though, those kids grew up, got jobs, and started spending their money on music. And they knew what they liked: hearing guys talk about a life they would never have, particularly one that included lots of women, booze, drugs and guns. So, not only did they buy, but they bought as much of it as they could. Record execs, whose job it is to monitor what people are obsessed with, and exploit accordingly, did just that.

All of a sudden rap went from speaking truthfully about what it was like growing up in the world to telling everyone that success was how many groupies you had, how many gats you packed, and how many benjamins you pocketed. Everyone not only wanted to be Tony Montana, but they also told you they were. Or in Ja Rule's case, that he was the next Tupac.

And it was/is all such bullshit in so many different ways. First, imagine if one of your friends told you the same story 13 times and the nine others after him pulled the same shit. You would tell them to shut the fuck up. So, why can rappers get away with it? Am I the only one tired of hearing about how many bitches they fucked and how much bling they got? Of course not.

Second, beef. This really reached a new pinnacle of absurdity when a record label manufactured a supposed dust-up between it's biggest star and one of it's up-and-coming. And now these motherfuckers actually hate each other. Battling has always been a part of the art. Murder, though, is a different story, unless you're an exec trying to sell a couple thousand more albums. The industry claims to revere Biggie and Pac, but yet it perpetuates a cycle of goddamn violence.

Third, these guys are full of shit. ATTENTION READERS: JEEZY IS NOT THE SNOWMAN. As a friend of mine and I were talking about the other day, if you are a full-fledged dealer, you don't rap. You don't have the time to be sitting down and writing a 100 bars. Conversely, if you rap, you ain't got time to be grindin' out a living. So even while some of these guys might have sold a few bags in their past, they are not the true-life Frank White now. You wouldn't let some white boy from Baton Rouge tell you that he was a Latin King, so why do you let Curtis Jackson tell you he's the real 50 Cent? Or to put it another way, in his autobiography, Snoop claims to have lost his virginity at 13 in a sex sandwich. Uh-huh, and I bang supermodels in my spare time.

These guys have beaten the shit out of the dead horse of being a gangster, and it stinks to high heaven. So, is it any wonder people are getting tired of listening?

However, if rap is on life support, is there any medicine to save it? I think so. Do yourself a favor, and break out ODB's Nigga Please. No, I'm serious. Go listen, and then come back and read the end of this.

Finished? What did you think? First, probably, that I'm crazy if I think this guy's the answer. (And yes, I realize he's dead.) But as Meth tell us on 36 chambers, Dirty got his name because his style has no father. And in that statement lies the truth about what needs to happen for rap to find salvation. Somebody's got to come along like nobody's ever heard before. It can not rely on the players already in the game. Simply, it needs another Big or Pac. Which probably means that while it's not dead, it might as well be. Those two are gone, and there won't be any one like them for a while. And why are they no longer with us? Because somebody wanted to be a gangster and help rap kill itself.

Why We're Missing the Point with Mark Foley

2006-10-05T15:36:00.000-05:00

Represenative Mark Foley isn't a pedophile. He may be a creep, but he's no chester. What makes this situation utterly despicable is a 50-something man consumed by power thought he could make sexual advances to teenage pages and get away with it because of who he was. What happened deserves some sort of outrage, but not in the manner with which it is currently occurring.

Pedophiles try to fuck kids. Foley never actually did that. While reading all of the conversations, I have yet to find an instance of where the congressman said something along the lines of, "Hey, you want to come over, have some Jesus-Juice, and suck on my shriveled, limp white penis?" He may have thought it, but he never acted on it. Now, there are fucked up passages, such as when Foley told one he liked to imagine the page's ass going up and down while he was masturbating on his stomach in bed. Not so cool. But commie-pinkos like myself would serve well to remember that speech and thought are protected by the Bill of Rights which we claim to treasure so much, even for pedophiles who should be tortured and then executed.

Additionally, society, and the media in particular, is not being truthful with itself when it labels Foley a pedophile. Why do I say that? Well, the answer lies in two places: (1) the way media has sexualized adolescents, and (2) the laughable idea that age-of-consent laws are in place first and foremost to protect children.

From books to movies to television, girls and boys are being depicted as sexual beings at a much younger age. You want proof? Click on the title of this essay to see a picture of Emma Watson. Ms. Watson, who up to this point is best known for her role in the Harry Potter movies, is all of 16 years old. Yet, she is looking longingly into the camera while wearing skin-tight clothes. Now, is there a difference between this and Foley asking his page how he jacks-off? Certainly. But perhaps the question we should all be asking is, "Why did Foley even see this boy as a sexual creature in the first place?" Maybe he has some serious mental disorder, because apparently he's checked into rehab. Or maybe part of it is because society gave him the implicit permission to view the youngest page in such a way in the first place.

There appears to be some debate now about the age and identity of the staffers, at least in the mind of Matt Drudge. But let's assume for the moment that Foley did make sexually-charged comments to a 16-year-old boy. Que the moral outrage and rightly so. But why should someone be truly upset about this? The first reaction is probably because throughout much of the country the legal age of consent is 18, and many people would say that we have such laws to protect the innocence of childhood. On this I say to both parts, bullshit. We have age of consent laws to protect us adults from ourselves. Let me give you an example. Bruce Willis fucked Lyndsey Lohan when she was 18, at least according to the celebrity gossip mills. If it's true, you know what that tells me? He would have nailed her when she was 16 had it been legal. And truth be told he wouldn't be the only one judging by the way my dad drools at the sight of a certain starlet named Scarlett. So, you can take your goody-two-shoes argument about protection and dump it out the window.

The age-of-consent law is 18 because we as a society believe that having sex with someone younger than that is a bit barbaric and shouldn't be deemed acceptable. But the actual reason it's in place is to keep people, mostly men, from actually banging a 16-year-old, because if it were legal they would. Be honest with yourself. (And please spare me the half-hearted speech of there's a meaningful maturity difference between someone who has just gotten their driver's license and someone who just got out of high school.) Like I said, it's all about protecting us from ourselves.

So, you're probably asking yourself, why, if I believe that society has been asking for this kind of behavior, am I upset about what occurred? Or put another way, why do I feel the outrage is misplaced? Let me explain.

Assuming Foley isn't a mental patient, I think any crisis of conscience he had over what he did probably went like this: "I don't know... talking to a young male about showering may not be the smartest thing. But then again, Ted Kennedy killed a woman and he still gets to be senator. So, who the fuck's going to stop me?" In other words, I think Mark Foley thought his power as an elected representative of the people would surely be enough to keep this hush-hush, particularly when the Speaker of the House seems to be at least in some ways complicit. And that my friends is truly outrageous.

Foley certainly knew what he was doing. Chances are if you're working for a Congressman at such a young age you're also thinking about a career in politics. And if I thought of that, so did he. Foley knew where he was from. Florida is not Miami. Florida is the panhandle. And most of the country is the panhandle as well. What do I mean? Well, the fact of the matter is that most of the country seems to operate under the principle of gays-need-not-apply. The representative knew that a homosexual scandal would sink his political career. But he could also rest assured that it would also derail the dreams of his young heartthrob.

To me if you want to talk about legality and this situation, you should look to sexual harassment. Because if it isn't, a lot of the dynamics are still the same. When I took Employment Discrimination, I laughed at some of the things the bosses/supervisors did, thinking, "What made them think that they would get away with this?" I quickly understood then it was all about power. One, these guys figure that if their victim wants to keep his/her job, then they won't tell. Two, these people probably have little power over there own lives, so they attempt to control somebody else's.

Bring on Mark Foley. I've already explained the first part. When it comes to the second, I'm not now arguing against myself. By his position soley, the dude had power, which I'm sure in turn fueled why he felt protected. But let's not forget, he's also a politician. One doesn't get there by not making few choices when it comes to his ethical flexibility. So, why not try to exert control over a rather powerless individual?

Power corrupts and absolute power corrupts absolutely. It certainly did for Foley and Hastert. If you want to be upset about something, let it be that.