A George By Any Other Name

Choice Onion headline of the day: There's No Problem I Can Handle:

Some people look at adversity as a challenge. I'm not one of them. I see adversity like this: menacing, cold-hearted adversity. When life gives me lemons, I wish desperately for lemonade. But as I lack the sugar and ice necessary to make it, the lemons instead rot away in the drawer of the refrigerator until several months later, when I eventually throw them away.

When you're in a bind, I'm precisely the guy you shouldn't count on. When people seek guidance, they look to anyone else but me. Need a shoulder to cry on? I'm nowhere to be found. And when the chips are down, well sir, so am I.

Now, I know that the byline says "T. Eric Mayhew," but come on... A child of privilege. Had everything handed to him. Can't handle a crisis... Doesn't that sound an awful lot like, oh I don't know, George W. Bush?

Plain Bad Luck and Innocent Mistakes

Just before I left work today, I got an e-mail from my niece to let me know that her fiance, Luke, was in a pretty nasty wreck. (I'm the last of nine kids. My niece is only nine years younger than I am, which is how a relatively young fella like me has an engaged niece. We're not hillbillies, thankyouverymuch.) He broke his knee, some teeth, and hurt his ankle. She kindly included some pictures:

The e-mail doesn't say how it happened, and I'm a little wary of guessing. I chose to chalk it up to bad luck and left for home.

As it happens, bad luck seems to be going around... You see, as I was driving home, the same route as I've gone every day for the last year, I wound up hitting the woman in front of me as she stopped so the car in front of her could make a left turn. And I honestly have no idea how it happened. I wasn't on the phone or goofing with my stereo. I wasn't speeding. About the only thing I can think of is that it was pretty bright out, and maybe the sun made it difficult to see the brake lights. That, coupled with the road I was on being somewhat curvy must have done me in. Or maybe not. In the end, without any sort of video tape (or even eyewitness, as no one bothered to stick around -- thanks a lot, people), it's impossible to say. It just happened.

All told, it took me about two hours to get the whole mess sorted out. The worst part, from my point of view, is that the airbags deployed. The bumper on my car is wrecked, but the engine and everything else seems to be fine. But those airbags are going to be the expensive thing. As far as the other driver's car goes, I tagged the back bumper, but it's nothing that couldn't be fixed with some washers and a buffer, although I doubt the insurance company will go that route.

Ah well. I guess I was just due -- I haven't had an accident since I was a teenager. I'm usually a pretty careful driver, too, although I speed some and talk on the phone without an earpiece more than I should. I take no more risk than most people do, I think. Still, even though I know it's an "accident," that doesn't make me feel any less like a "jackass."

The manager at the body shop says that it's probably no big deal. I'll pay my $250 deductible (which stings, because just yesterday I put $350 into the thing to get a bunch of work done, including -- oh, the irony -- new brakes), and my rates will probably go up (although I haven't a clue how much), and that will be that. Or not. Who knows? I think I pulled something in my neck, which probably just needs some heat or a good rubdown, but perhaps not. And the woman in the other car could get greedy... But, still, at least everyone's alive and in one piece, right?

In case you forgot...

Happy Zweibelmas everyone!

ATB: Scream, Freddie, Scream

For those of you keeping track, two new columns have been posted over at The Poop Shoot and Freddie Prinze, Jr. (Figuratively, of course.)

The first column was the result of my fond memories of the first Scream film, which I saw with my friend Zack on opening night, purely on a whim. If memory serves, the film had had something of a low-key ad campaign, and horror had been a dead genre for years, so the quality of the movie was a genuine surprise to everyone in the audience. How things changed in the four years between the first and the third. Scream 2 ("The Screamening") could never have matched the original's sucker punch thrill, but it was still fun, albeit nowhere near as clever as the first. Still, my hopes were high that the third film would be a return to form, although the loss of the original screenwriter didn't bode well for the enterprise. (Then again, his name isn't exactly a sure sign of quality either...) At least, I hoped, they would have a better killer than the sister from Roseanne, right?

Um, no. Not even close. They got Noel from Felicity.

Oooh. Scary.

Now, one of the big talking points about Scream 3 was that the filmmakers shot three endings (or maybe just wrote three, I don't recall). Or so they claimed. Nowhere could I find any sort of mention about what the other two endings were (although I didn't have the stomach to listen to more than a portion of the director's commentary), but I bet they were better than the "whiny brother" one that they went with.

Originally, my concept was that I was going to reveal the other two endings, but that felt like it would wind up either too short or requiring lots of padding to get it to a respectable length. But the idea of Sidney discovering that the man who was tormenting her life for the last several years was, in fact, the RA from Felicity seemed promising, so I went with that:

Ghostface: The other half of you. I searched for a mother too, an actress named Rina Reynolds. Tried to find her my whole life. And four years ago, I actually tracked her down. Knocked at her door, thinking she'd welcome me with open arms, but she had a new life, and a new name: Maureen Prescott. You were the only child she claimed, Sidney. She shut me out in the cold forever. Her own son! [Pulls off his mask.]

Sidney: But you're...

Ghostface: Yes. Yes, I am!

Sidney: ...the guy from "Felicity"?

Ghostface: The man who really killed... Wait, what? No!

Fun bit to write. It could probably stand to lose the whole digression at the end, but I wanted to have the characters go into the sort of metatextual discussion that made the first film so much fun. (That said, dialogue columns always seem a lot longer than they really are because there's usually lots of returns.)

Then, for last week's column, I wound up writing about the merits of one Freddie Prinze, Jr.

He's been on my list for a while, and so when my girlfriend pointed out one of his box covers in the video store it seemed like as good a time as any, particularly since he has a sitcom coming up this season. And, really, what has this man contributed to society? Apart from "Fred" in Scoobie-Doo (and even that's not much of a stretch), he always plays the same character in his films, which I have to assume isn't too far removed from his own personality: bland, frat-boyish, and devoid of any real flaws or depth of any kind. It's hard to hate the characters he plays, but it's hard to care about them either. They're just sort of there... And watching three of his movies, I had to wonder what the appeal was, beyond the usual vacant, teen-idoly thing that teenage girls latch onto now and then and later discard after about three years. (See David Cassidy, Leif Garrett, the New Kids, etc.)

The movies themselves were universally awful, as though the producers knew that the target audience wouldn't care one way or the other. Two of the three (Wing Commander and Down to You) were practically incoherent, with plots that made no sense and had massive holes, and characters that were stereotypical, idiotic, and wildly inconsistent. Head Over Heels' story was at least followable, but reduced its characters to plot devices. All three movies made me want to punch someone.

Trying to find a unified thread through the movies wasn't hard. Basically, the question is, "Why is this guy even a movie star?" I fell back on the technique of making it a science question, AKA the old "science has long wondered..." question. As though science gives a crap about Freddie Prinze, Jr. (Then again, about once a month the papers run some story about some scientists who got a grant to study, I don't know, dog farts or somesuch.) I'd used a similar approach in the infamous Andie MacDowell column, to reasonable success. The difficult part was not repeating myself. I think I succeeded, mostly. I toyed with the idea of pretending that every one of Freddie's movies is actually about Freddie being a killer robot from the future, but that plot always gets cut out. (I still like that idea, actually. Maybe some other time.) That joke only survived in the intro paragraph:

Attempts to explain not only the existence of a Freddie Prinze, Jr., as well as the enduring appeal of a man who has all the personality of a dry erase board have ranged from the serious (Prinze is a robot from the future sent back to kill us all) to the silly (Prinze is a robot from the future sent back to buy us York Peppermint Patties), but so far none have managed to sufficiently encapsulate the Prinze Mystique.

As I was approaching the end, as usual, I was struggling with how to end it. The idea of pretending that one of Freddie's action films is, in fact, a romantic comedy seemed promising, but it still needed a kicker. And then it hit me: The whole science thing created a lovely sort of parallel with the whole "intelligent design" fuss. I won't spoil the parallel, but it still makes me chuckle (although not as much as, say, the phrase "Hold me closer, Tony Danza").

Anyway, go read.

This Just In: Bush Needs to Pee

Ladies and gentlemen, I give you a photo of George W. Bush asking Condi Rice if they can adjourn so he can go Number 1. I'm not sure if it's sadder that Reuters felt compelled to share this photo, or that Bush clearly has no concept of proper capitalization...

eBay Strikes Comedy Gold Yet Again

I've always maintained that there are some things in life that are just inately funny. One of those things is the word "pants." See? Funny for so many reasons. As are monkeys. Put those two together (i.e., "monkey pants"), and you have comedy gold right there: Monkeys don't wear pants! What on earth are monkey pants? Now add "space" to the "monkey" in question (as in "space monkey" -- What is a monkey doing in space? How did he get there? Is he sent from the future? Can he validate my parking?) and you have the kind of hilarity that keeps professional funny people awake at night, praying to be so blessed.

Ladies and gentlemen, now you can own a piece of history, albeit a piece of history that has monkeyshit (space monkeyshit!) skidmarks:

It's offered to your attention the "space pants" for macaque small monkey to wear it during the experimental space flight. This [sic] pants has been used for animals [sic again] (monkeys) experiments in 1950-s - 1960-s in the USSR Institute of Biomedical Problems (IMBP, Moscow). The monkey's "space pants" are designed with many clasps to fit bigger or smaller monkey.

Space pants! Pants! From space! For a monkey! God bless you, eBay.

Stop Ellen Before She Strikes Again!

Pat Robertson has once again shown us the way. Forget global warming, turns out Ellen Degeneres is responsible for Hurricane Katrina!

"This is the second time in a row that God has invoked a disaster shortly before lesbian Ellen Degeneres hosted the Emmy Awards," said Pat. "Is it any surprise that the Almighty chose to strike at Miss Degeneres' hometown? [...] God already allows one awards show to promote the homosexual agenda. But clearly He will not tolerate such sinful behavior to spread beyond the Tonys."

In other news, Hugo Chavez is still alive.

Note: It has been brought to my attention that this is, in fact, bullshit. To which, I reply, maybe it is right now, but give Pat a month or two and he'll probably utter those very words. Six weeks, tops.

Quick, check him for horns and a "666" tattoo!

And so it has come to pass... Britney Spears has given birth to the Spawn of Federline, a baby boy. Frogs raining from the sky and seven-headed dragons will be along any day now.

Pledge This!

Uh oh. Here comes trouble.

Reciting the Pledge of Allegiance in public schools was declared unconstitutional Wednesday by a federal judge ruling in the second attempt by an atheist to have the pledge removed from classrooms. The man lost his previous battle before the U.S. Supreme Court.

Now everyone (by which I mean religious wingnuts) are going to get their panties in a bunch. What's funny (or ironic, in that Alanis Morrissette-sort of way) is the way that these same people completely ignore the history of the thing. As is often pointed out, the much-disputed "under God" section was added by Congress in the 50s (after a campaign by the Catholic organization the Knights of Columbus) to differentiate the United States from those godless commies, the Soviets. What isn't as widely known is that the pledge was actually written by a socialist.

The Pledge of Allegiance was written for the popular children's magazine Youth's Companion by socialist author and Baptist minister Francis Bellamy on 11 October 1892. The owners of Youth's Companion were selling flags to schools, and approached Bellamy to write the Pledge for their advertising campaign. It was marketed as a way to celebrate the 400th anniversary of Columbus arriving in the Americas and was first published on the following day, 12 October.

In addition, Bellamy also originally intended the Pledge to be accompanied by a salute that looks, well, familiar:

At the words, “to my Flag,” the right hand is extended gracefully, palm upward, toward the Flag, and remains in this gesture till the end of the affirmation; whereupon all hands immediately drop to the side.

So, pledge fanatics, there you have it: The oath that you love so much is essentially an advertising jingle written by an avid socialist and meant to include a Nazi salute.

Times Have Changed...

Recently, my Tivo grabbed a repeat of Saturday Night Live from 1998 that Greg Kinnear hosted. This was Colin Quinn's intro for Weekend Update that week:

First article of business: President Clinton. This week, you really can't abuse him. The stock market broke records all week. Oil prices are the lowest since 1975. We went after the tobacco corporations. Banned the import of automatic weapons, and helped stop a 500-year-old war in Ireland. I want to buy this guy his next hooker.

Yep, I can definitely see why people hated Clinton so much...

Have No Fear Hurricane Victims, Celine's Got Your Back

Look out, President Bush! Celine's heart will go on... kicking your ass!

Canadian singer Celine Dion has launched a scathing attack on US President George W. Bush's Iraq policy, while criticizing his country's slow response to the southern states devastated by last week's Hurricane Katrina. Dion, who has donated $1 million to victims of the storm, grew visibly emotional as she told of her frustration watching tens of thousands of survivors wait days for aid on CNN's Larry King Live show on Saturday. The hitmaker fumed, "I open (sic) the television, there's people still there, waiting to be rescued, and for me it's not acceptable. I know there's reasons for it, I'm sorry to say, I'm being rude, but I don't want to hear those reasons."

Whoa. Don't hold back there, Celine! You're out of control. What's that? President Bush is... a doodyhead? Ouch!

She goes on to say:

"Oh, they're stealing 20 pair of jeans or they're stealing television sets. Who cares? They're not going to go too far with it. Maybe those people are so poor, some of the people who do that they're so poor they've never touched anything in their lives."

Wow. Never touched anything? That is poor. "Momma, why am I floating naked in this vacuum with no possessions?" "Because we're too poor to afford luxuries like jeans and dirt."

In other news, it's good to see Larry King is covering the important stories of the day by interviewing has-been pop stars.

Goodbye, Justice Warren

Buried two sections behind The Oregonian's lead story telling of Bush's plan to nominate John Roberts to Chief Justice of the Supremes was a charming story of a woman who once ejected some of the most powerful men in the country from her diner because they arrived looking like drifters.

Olympia Celea Reges, who once ejected a Supreme Court justice, a U.S. senator and a Cabinet secretary from her restaurant, the Old Angler's Inn, after they walked in wearing soggy hiking attire and clutching sack lunches, died Aug. 31. She had been the restaurant's owner for nearly 50 years.

"I run this place to make money, not to serve tramps," Mrs. Reges said, rebuking the underdressed diners who dripped into her newly remodeled restaurant May 6, 1961. The hikers, who had trudged 11 miles in the rain, draped their wet ponchos on the tables and unwrapped their homemade sandwiches, ordering only beverages or glasses of water.

As it happened, in addition to a senator, the Secretary of the Interior and a Supreme Court justice, the party included a Washington Post reporter and photographer, and so the story made it to papers across the country. Here was a woman who said "You look like a bum. Get out!" to some of the country's most influential government officials.

The part that really struck me about this obituary was the section detailing the fallout (or lack thereof) from Ms. Reges' actions:

Mrs. Reges also began to worry that she would lose her business license and be deported because of the incident, but her fears were allayed by a new customer, Chief Justice Earl Warren.

Warren made a standing appointment for lunch with his law clerks at the inn. He told her, according to one of his law clerks, that she lived in a free country now and was free to evict the attorney general, a Supreme Court justice "and anyone else who abused her hospitality." He also gave her his private office phone number and urged her to call him if anyone ever tried to bother her over the matter.

Juxtaposing this tale of old fashioned manners was the one-two punch on the front page of the paper displaying both the effects of the current administration's hubris and their plan for extending that behavior into the next generation. I am speaking of the disaster in New Orleans and the president's nomination of John Roberts to fill the place of the not-even-cold Chief Justice Rehnquist.

The picture of a teary-eyed Roberts that the O chose to run reminded me of Jimmy Swaggart's infamous "I have sinned against you" speech:

The comparison strikes me as both odd and apt. It's an unusual choice for an above-the-fold, front page picture, but apt in that I suspect that this guy is very much a sneak attack by Bush. Such a move would be perfectly in keeping with Bush's record of "Fuck You" nominations and spoiled child entitlement that has been the earmark of his time in office. He gets what he wants, regardless of whether it's a prudent decision or not. And what he wants, I am sure, is to recast the Supreme Court in a far right wing image. Roberts has demonstrated himself to be in line with Gonzales in that he will gladly bend the rules to or even past the breaking point to get his boss what he wants. So say goodbye to your porn, your abortion, your privacy, and say hello to the big business/big religion agenda.

I don't often say this, because I'm wrong many times, but mark my words, kids. I'd love to be wrong on all of this, but I sincerely doubt it. This is go time for George, and in spite of the fact that his approval ratings are at all-time lows, he's finally got the opportunity to enact real change that libuhruls can't undo right quick, and by golly, he's gonna.

I'm wary of assigning blame to Bush for the disaster in New Orleans, as some are (Air America's Randi Rhodes, for instance, has gone completely off the rails with conspiracy rants lately), but I'm also not going to shy away from the extreme likelihood that this administration's gross neglegence and misplaced priorities have gotten thousands of Americans displaced and/or killed. And here we have it, folks: The chickens have come home to roost. This is what you voted for. Well, half of you did anyway. It's definitely not the gentlemanly, evenhanded Republicanism demonstrated by Justice Warren. It's cronyism, toadyism, corruption, and utter contempt for science. It's negligence. I'd say it's criminal, but then, it's hard to call it that when it's the guys who make the laws who are doing it.

That said, there's cause for hope. It may not be too late. Sure, Roberts will get confirmed (unless they manage to dig up some sort of boneheaded foible, like, say, approving the torture of inmates -- except, wait, no one cares about that crap... not unless there's pictures), but people seem to have finally woken up to the shit stink that Bush left on their lawn.

"Do you know whom you are ordering around?" one hiker asked.

"Well, is he going to clean up the mess you make?" she retorted, pointing to the puddles on the floor.

Maybe the midterm elections will see the displacement of some of the corrupt Republicans with some of the slightly less corrupt Democrats. Maybe just enough to get some semblance of balance in the Federal government.

Sounds nice, don't it? Well, you gotta have hope, right?

Quote of the Day

Steven Friedlander, head of distribution for Warner Independent Pictures, which distributed the surprise hit film March of the Penguins:

"In an ideal world, people would say 'OK, we have to think more creatively, we have to think outside the box and come up with new and different things.' But I'm afraid what's going to happen is, we're all going to sit in a room and say 'We need more penguin movies.'"

Ironically, we do need more penguin movies. But that's beside the point.

Just because.

For no apparent reason, a picture of a monkey at a typewriter:

You're welcome.