Whose Smoke Screen Reigns Supreme?

I typically watch George W. Bush's international press conferences just for the comedic value; when he's on camera with a head-of-state from another country, viewers get the dichotomic hilarity of watching Lancelot Link smirk and preen like Jack Nicholson working his way through a million-dollar gift card from Heidi Fleiss, while squirming uncomfortably because, in truth, he couldn't find his guest's homeland on a map that showed only that country.

But today's press conference was special.

That's because, no matter what our idiot-in-charge did -- he couldn't overpower the sheer, huggable adorableness of Japanese prime-minister Junichiro Koizumi, whom at any moment I expected to smile, and -- with a mischievous glint in his eye -- walk over and unveil the secret ingredient.

Allez cuisine!

Generation Y... As In "Y Didn't My Father Do The World a Favor and Smother Me at Birth?"

Dear God, I hate MySpace.

I hate it as much as I hate those damned Brazilians and their futbol.

Just take a look at this poor kid.

There's just no hope for her. She may as well resign herself to a life of bathroom blow jobs and illegitimate pregnancies.

And Jesus Christ what it must be like for this kid's father -- knowing that the angelic baby girl he once held in his arms and had such high hopes for is doomed to never advance beyond a 5th-grade reading level, and will wind up wasting her teenage years working at Hot Topic or Orange Julius, only to eventually develop a debilitating coke habit and die in a puddle of her own sick on a stripper pole in Smyrna, Georgia.

If he has anything resembling shame or human dignity, he'd end her suffering. He may as well get it over with before he sees her turn up on teenwhorethreesomes.com. I figure he's got about two months left -- three tops. Come on Dad, you created this mess, time to clean it up.

America, take a look at your future and assure me again that global warming is the biggest threat to this country.

This has been a "The More You Know" public service announcement... now back to My Name is Earl.

Requiem

Staff Sgt. Raymond J. Plouhar has died in a roadside bombing in Iraq.

It happened on Monday in the volatile al-Anbar province.

His father describes him as somebody who always befriended those who didn't have any friends.

He once donated a kidney to save an uncle.

In 2004, Staff Sgt. Plouhar was one of two Marines seen vigorously recruiting teenagers for military service in Michael Moore's film, Fahrenheit 911.

It would almost be funny if it weren't so utterly tragic.

He was scheduled to come home in 38 days.

Staff Sgt. Plouhar leaves behind a wife, and two children who aren't old enough to understand war, irony, or the fact that their father's death will surely be exploited by both sides of the obscene struggle for hearts, minds and votes here at home.

I'm Super... Thanks for Asking!

Alright, so we've all heard the rumors -- and unfortunately I can't confirm whether or not Star Jones was promptly fed to Rosie O'Donnell immediately following her surprise announcement on The View yesterday; although from what I hear Star hasn't been seen since the show and Rosie was spotted coughing up a hair weave and a size ten Prada shoe with a pricetag still on it.

But that's not the rumor I'm talking about; this one deals with the new Superman's -- shall we say -- alleged preference for other "men of steel."

Superman Returns director Bryan Singer and his neophyte star Brandon Routh have both denied that there's any gay subtext in the new movie; but unlike Singer -- who's openly gay -- Routh has denied his super little ass off that he loves the cock.* Whether or not there's a handgun with the Warner Brothers logo pointed at his temple during these denials, who knows, but with a $200 million dollar investment on the line -- and memories of Batman and Robin still fresh in the WB's head -- it's probably a safe bet.

With that in mind, Brandon Routh's recently released "Celebrity Playlist" on iTunes makes for curiously hilarious reading.

First of all, the guy writes like a fifteen year-old girl -- right down to his affinity for putting exclamation marks after every sentence! Apparently, he can hardly contain himself that Apple has given him the opportunity to relay some of his favorite songs to you! It's a little like watching a Japanese cartoon show, go! He has happy fun cool sexy songs, HA HA!

Thank God they don't make a computer that would've allowed him to dot his "I"s with little smiley faces.

Once you've swallowed that many exclamations (although I seriously doubt Brandon has ever swallowed anything that has a period attached to it) you can move on to the fact that there are three, I repeat THREE references to an amorphous "female" in Brandon's life. In his description of Cake's Love You Madly, he writes, "It always puts me in a good mood and I can't help but think of my girl." For the Foo Fighters' See You, Brandon ups the ante and shows a truly gentlemanly side by saying that the song, "Makes me think of my lady when we're apart."

And if there's still any question in your mind after those declarations, Bran drops all pretense of subtlety and just picks Beck's Girl.

Now you'd think that Warner's army of publicists would at least know that the best way to dispel rumors of their star's homosexuality would NOT be to get Anthony Michael Hall's character from The Breakfast Club to write about his mystery girlfriend who conveniently lives in Niagara Falls.

So, as a courtesy to the people at Warner Brothers -- who I should mention are paid much more than me -- allow me to present my suggestions for "Brandon Routh's Unquestionably Heterosexual iTunes Playlist."

Smack My Bitch Up -- Prodigy
Cheatin' Woman -- Molly Hatchet
I Smell Pussy -- G-Unit
Sex Farm -- Spinal Tap
One in a Million -- Guns N' Roses
Anything from the Afghan Whigs
Ike's Theme -- Ike Turner
Butch -- Imperial Teen
Who's Your Daddy -- Toby Keith
Crazy Bitch -- Buckcherry
Cleveland Rocks -- Presidents of the United States of America
Pimp Juice -- Nelly
Love Gravy -- Chef (this could go either way; of course for all we know so could Brandon)
I Wish I Was Queer So I Could Get Chicks -- Bloodhound Gang
I'm Not Gay -- Saphin

Feel free to add your own!

*Before you start with the hate mail, it's a line from a movie. Blame Kevin Smith, everyone else does.

Hard Times

"It's incredibly obvious isn't it? A foreign substance introduced into our precious bodily fluids... I first became aware of it during the physical act of love. Yes, a profound sense of fatigue... a feeling of emptiness followed. Luckily I was able to interpret these feelings correctly -- loss of essence. I can assure you it has not recurred. Women sense my power and they seek the life essence. I do not avoid women -- but I do deny them my essence."

-- General Jack D. Ripper
Dr. Strangelove

When I heard the news about Rush Limbaugh being busted with Viagra that apparently hadn't been prescribed to him, I first thought about responding by simply writing HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!! until it filled up the entire page. I mean, let's face it -- why bother trying to wax esoteric about the fact that Rush's malfunctioning penis could screw (no pun intended) his plea deal with prosecutors in Florida.

But then I realized that there actually is a bigger (no pun intended again) issue here. These are tough times for the folks on the far-right. Gone are the days when their bullying and bloviation actually worked on most of the American public. Coulter may have finally dug herself a hole she can't get out of; Whether he chooses to admit it or not, O'Reilly's ratings are actually down; and of course the man behind the message -- their messiah, George W. Bush -- is seeing his approval numbers tank.

Maybe Rush's inability to get it up and keep it up is symbolic of the GOP's "loss of essence."

Let's hope these feelings are interpreted correctly.

This can only be the work of the terrorists.

Weekly Reader

Last week I promised to post an excerpt from my book every weekend. I'm going to keep that promise, but I'm going to change the format a little bit. Because the excerpts are so damned long, and tend to push everything else either all the way to the bottom, or off the page entirely, I've started a separate blog. The only posts on that blog will be book segments.

The title of the book is "Blow Up the Outside World" -- taken from the name of the Soundgarden song whose lyrics seemed especially appropriate.

Therefore, the address of the excerpt blog is www.malcontent-outsideworld.blogspot.com.

There's also a link at the top of the links to the right.

The basic story behind the book...

When I woke up in a dark hotel room, pretty much everything that had happened to me up to that point was a blur. I wasn't quite sure where I was. I wasn't quite sure how I'd gotten there. The reason was because I hadn't slept -- really slept -- in more than a month. Somehow though, I must've managed to pass out hard in that hotel room, finally, because when I pulled myself up out of bed, stumbled across the floor and flung the curtains open, my reality hit me like a sledgehammer.

I was staring out at the smoking wreckage of the World Trade Center.

It was September 13th, 2001.

Everything pretty much came back to me then.

Two weeks earlier I had been in rehab in South Florida for a VERY nasty drug addiction. I hadn't slept because I was detoxing and going through the nightmare of early recovery. When I got out of rehab, my wife at the time had left me. I had no job. I had no future. I had nothing. I was staying in the guest room of my parents' home outside Miami, trying to talk myself out of suicide.

When the attacks of September 11th happened, as much as I hate to be postmodern, I thought of the words of Tyler Durden.

It's only after you've lost everything that you're free to do anything.

I took a leap of faith by packing my bags and driving north. My thought was that an opportunity to do something -- anything -- for those who were going through infinitely more pain than I was just might be the only thing that would give me some purpose again and keep me alive. I would've handed out water if I that's what they'd needed.

As it turned out, I got a call from an old friend of mine at NBC who offered to put me to work on the biggest story in American history. It changed my life.

I lived in a hotel for four months -- the same hotel I woke up in that first morning -- I met families who were going through hell. I hope I made some kind of a difference for them. I worked with some of the most talented people in the world. I rebuilt my life during one of the most difficult and unique times in history. America had never seen a time like this, and I used it become a new person.

Strange days indeed.

But that's only half the story -- or actually, only a third.

The story is told in three separate timelines which run concurrently throughout the story. I detail the time leading up to my decision to go into rehab -- when I carpet-bombed my marriage and job in Los Angeles by doing enough drugs to kill an elephant. I also detail my time in rehab -- when I came to the realization that recovery would have to be on my own terms. And of course, there's the period following the attack -- when my entire life changed at the epicenter of 9/11. That tragedy -- shared by millions -- provides a pretty startling backdrop for one very personal story.

Anyway. I've been writing all day dammit. I'm tired. All I can say is, I hope you enjoy.

Oh yeah, and today's excerpt involves an ex, who as it turns out was living in New York at the time of the attack.

And one more thing -- the wife I'm referring to in the story obviously isn't Jayne, the really amazing woman I'm married to now and have written about extensively on this blog. I suppose I'd be giving away the ending if I admitted that it was. Suffice to say that if I had salvaged my marriage with my ex-wife, I probably would've eventually killed myself anyway just for the quiet.

Cheers kids.

So MySpace... My Old Nemesis... We Meet Again

Two perfect examples of why MySpace just sucks. No seriously, it's the fucking worst.

#1) Its corporate owner, Rupert Murdoch, is posed smugly on the cover of this month's Wired magazine. He of course also owns Fox News Channel and is solely to blame for its existence.

#2) It gives people like this access to the rest of us. One look at this trainwreck and you know you're seeing douchebaggery in its purest form. I will seriously give my life savings to anyone who will build Skynet and send the Terminator back through time to kill this kid's mother.

The Gang That Couldn't Bomb Straight

America has enemies, and it faces serious threats from these enemies; anyone who denies this is an idiot.

This indisputable fact, however, is the main reason why this morning's ridiculously absurd dog and pony show in Miami and Washington is so goddamned offensive -- not to mention dangerous.

In case you've been nowhere near a television, radio or bullhorn in the past several hours, the justice department is claiming that it's struck a decisive blow in the war on terror by arresting and indicting the Marx Brothers. Essentially, FBI agents have broken-up a "terror cell" in Miami which it says had sworn allegiance to al-Qaeda and was supposedly planning to blow-up the Sears Tower.

Now when I first heard this, my immediate reaction was that the feds were talking about the Sears Tower in Miami -- a completely worthless landmark right in the middle of the barren crack-den which the chamber of commerce instead calls "Downtown." In fact, I'm still kind of convinced that this was the true intended target of these so-called terrorists. The reason I say this is because -- as I would've expected when I heard the words "terrorists" and "Miami" in the same sentence -- it's obvious that these idiots couldn't blow-up a fucking balloon. It would be pretty much par for the course for these guys to believe that destroying an empty building would strike fear into the heart of America.

For the most part, the group is comprised of Haitians and Cubans; and while certainly a fine representation of the entire population of Miami, they're NOT the folks you'd expect to see taking part in any kind of anti-American activity that didn't involve rallying in front of the immigration office. Ironically, Haitians actually do have a legitimate beef with this country. The staggering inequity of the policy which allows them to be turned around at sea and shipped back to hell, while others just sail right in, is definitely worth getting angry over. The Cuban culture, meanwhile, has produced some of the most inept terrorists in history -- thing is, they've only terrorized Cuba, which is why our government has never actually referred to them as terrorists. Still, it's doubtful that either of these groups would ever pose a significant threat to this country.

So why all the excessive back-patting and self-congratulation from Alberto Gonzalez and company?

Is it really all that cynical at this point -- given all we've seen and heard -- to once again question the timing and motive of this "important victory in the war on terror?" How many times has the Attorney General, the Department of Homeland Security or the FBI rode in like the goddamned cavalry to save Bush's ass when his poll numbers drop or bad news slides across his desk?

This is dangerous not because these bumbling morons might've been planning to bring America to its knees by driving their cabs simultaneously into a Burger King, but because most of us have become so jaded and suspicious of asinine news conferences warning that the sky is falling, that we WILL NOT believe the real threat when it happens. This my friends is why our president has become so alarmingly handicapped -- because we simply don't believe him anymore. It's a crisis of faith that only gets worse everytime the U.S. officials whose job it is to protect us, trot out yet another life-threatening scenario that probably isn't.

Whether or not we really ARE being bullshitted no longer matters.

Oh, and by the way -- we're often reminded of the "quiet victories" in the war on terror; the ones that we don't hear about; the ones that prove how this administration's policies and tactics really are keeping us all safer. Dwell on this: if the justice department trumpets the arrest of a couple of Haitians playing cowboys-and-terrorists down in Miami, don't you think sombody REALLY dangerous would be given his own presidential address in fucking primetime? Nothing that makes the White House look good is done "quietly."

Sleep soundly America. You're in good hands.

And once again we raise the nation's Cynicism Alert Level to red.

The Tao of Keith

Keith Olbermann has a reputation -- one that's fairly well-known throughout the television news business.

We've all heard the stories; they're the stuff of legend.

He's impossible. He's unbalanced. He's a nightmare. He's completely fucking nuts.

Well guess what? None of it matters. None of it. The reason is because when the lights come up and the camera comes on, Keith Olbermann becomes one of the smartest, funniest and most talented people on television. His show, "Countdown," is not only the lone bright spot on MSNBC's otherwise painfully dismal lineup, it's the best news show on television. Period. Whether or not you agree with Keith's obviously left-of-center politics, his show provides an essential counterbalance to the legion of media out there who are content to either be complicit in forwarding the agenda of those in power, or worse, to simply sit back and do nothing.

Translation: he picked up a rifle when the rest of us abandoned our posts.

In its best moments, Countdown shocks viewers with its willingness to do stories and take positions that other newscasts won't, often for the reasons I described in a previous post (Journalist, Defend Thyself, June 7th, 2006). Olbermann wears his passion and his politics on his sleeve, and does so with an appropriate amount of razor-sharp wit and, occasionally, unapologetic outrage. His constant prodding, berating and exposing of the guy who shares his time-slot at the other end of the dial -- Bill O'Reilly -- is a joy to watch. Somebody's gotta do it, and Keith does it so very, very well. Detractors always revel in pointing out that O'Reilly's ratings are higher, as if this fact is somehow proof of the quality of his show. It's not. Britney Spears has sold a lot more records than Queens of the Stone Age; it doesn't mean she doesn't still suck.

There's a reason Olbermann signs off nightly by using the words of Edward R. Murrow -- "Good night, and good luck." For the time being at least, he seems to be the only one who remembers what Murrow stood for and fought for. He's not afraid to stir the pot. Bottom line: Countdown has balls, and lately it's pissed some people off. There's an almost irrefutable correlation between Olbermann taking a certain amount of shit, and the reversal of fortune for the present administration, specifically as it applies to its folly in Iraq.

I once heard that you can judge someone by the enemies he makes; I also happen to know that in the world of TV, if you're not a threat, you'll simply be ignored. If people are bothering to talk about you -- to respond to you -- then you're on their radar.

Hence why it was so gratifying and amusing to get a look at an interesting little exchange that took place last week. Basically, it revolved around a series of e-mails sent back and forth between Olbermann and two right-wing critics who decided to poke him with a stick. Lloyd Grove, a gossip columnist here in New York, and a guy who can always be counted on to provide excellent housebreaking material for that new puppy, giddily published the e-mails for all to see. His intention it seems was to expose Olbermann as a rampaging hot-head while simultaneously shocking readers with the heretofore unknown revelation that adults sometimes use foul language.

It apparently started with an e-mail from the unknown antagonists (Notably, Grove wouldn't print their names) in which they taunted Olbermann by saying that dead al Qaeda terrorist Abu Musab al-Zarqawi was obviously his "hero." It was just the kind of juvenile crap you'd expect to hear from the few Bush supporters left these days.

Olbermann could've -- and many say should've -- blown it off; but he didn't. His e-mail reply?

"Hey, save the oxygen for somebody whose brain can use it. Kill yourself."

Over a period of God-knows-how-long, Olbermann responded to the continued abuse by asking his unknown tormentors if they were "still watching that evil fuck O'Reilly?" and by telling them at one point, "Go fuck your mother."

Okay... was his reaction kind of immature and ill-advised? Yes. In fact, after the exchange went public, Olbermann was forced to issue an apology, saying, "I should not have replied to these... hateful e-mails, but I wonder how many of us could receive literally hundreds of them, questioning our patriotism, religion and ethnic origin, without succumbing to the natural wish to confront such hate." The fact that he "succumbed" from his official NBC e-mail address didn't help matters.

But was it wrong?

We've all heard about the dangers of what happens when we allow ourselves to surrender the position of moral authority. We've listened to mom say, "Don't stoop to their level." We've watched Tubbs convince Crockett not to shoot the murderous bastard he has at the end of his gun, saying, "Don't do it man, he's not worth it." We'd like to believe that taking the high road is, without exception, preferable to getting into a shouting match, or a fist fight, or a battle of obscene e-mails. Well, sometimes it is -- and sometimes is isn't. Sometimes the high road leads to a cliff.

One of the biggest problems with those under attack by the Cult of Bush, is that they've kept deathly quiet in comparison to their antagonists. I can only assume that this is because they're still believing the words of mom. They're still listening to Tubbs's voice telling them that their enemy just isn't worth it. They feel that they're above that kind of anger and frustration. In some ways, their silence only proves what their attackers are saying about them -- that they consider themselves to be too elite and too pristine to be able to engage in the kind of shouting and name-calling which the average Joe understands so well. They spend too much time thinking, and not enough time decisively acting. No matter how hard you try, you can't make avoidance look decisive.

But Olbermann did something that I've been waiting for someone with a forum to do for months -- he stepped off the pedestal and got his hands dirty. Good idea or not, he stopped taking it and told them to fuck off.

Chalk this up to his alleged psychosis all you want; maybe more people should do what he did.

After all, what did you think when Crockett didn't shoot that son-of-a-bitch?

World Cup, Days Twelve and Thirteen

Once again, the African teams keep things interesting. Hell of a comeback.

CIV 3, SCG 2

Meanwhile, England draws but loses Owen in the process.

Eng 2, Swe 2

But hey, how 'bout that Heat!

Hips Don't Lie... But They Do Suck

Okay, so I caught a minor amount of crap from friends and readers for my little tirade against MySpace.

Thankfully, the contrived outrage wasn't directed at my opinion of the website itself or its evil creator, Tom -- had it been, I would've ignored it completely -- but moreso at my supposedly inhumane treatment of an old high school friend. You'll remember his name was Carlos and that I ran into him at my ten year high school reunion. You'll also remember that I took the position that his willingness to state without so much as a hint of shame or irony that he was still an avid follower of our current high school football team constituted a, shall we say, lack of personal growth on his part. I believe my exact words were, "get a goddamned life."

Well, a few people took offense to this. Through comment, e-mail and personal interaction, they were kind enough to once again remind me that I'm an arrogant, unappreciative asshole. I can deal with this. My usual reaction to statements like these is to simply raise my eyebrows, nod and smirk a little -- my face conveying something between pitiful recognition and accepted helplessness.

But I also got called a racist and a bigot by a couple of people.

I can only assume this is because Carlos's name would lead one to rightly conclude that he's Hispanic.

My first thought was to respond to the accusations with a couple of Mexican jokes, but that's only because I really am kind of a jerk. Instead, though, I got to thinking about the taboo subject of race and ethnicity in this country. I say taboo because even though we pretend to talk about prejudice, it seems like we never really do. It's the one subject that's truly too delicate to handle with anything but kid gloves. What we get instead are half-hearted platitudes from some, and self-righteous bloviation from others. There's so much rhetoric on both sides of the debate that after awhile it seems as if there's no debate at all.

So in the spirit of increased understanding, I'm just going to say what's on my mind:

I really fucking hate that Shakira song, "Hips Don't Lie," and I think it's kind of racist.

I'll explain why in a second; first, let me go ahead and address the whole Carlos thing. I can't help but think that a good number of the people who criticized my comments about him did so because they made instant judgments about the respective quality of his life and mine growing up. I'm also betting that these judgments were, for lack of a better word, racist. Being that I now live in Manhattan and work in television, they no doubt assumed that I led a charmed life growing up. Being that Carlos may still be working with his dad tiling floors, they no doubt also assumed that he spent his childhood eating Alpo. The funny thing is, no one would be willing to admit it but I have a sneaking suspicion that part of that false assumption comes solely from the impression of Carlos as a downtrodden, undereducated minority -- a victim who needs to be defended in the face of the affluent white prick. And people call me liberal.

The reality, of course, couldn't be further from the scenario I just described. I'm from Miami, and for those who've never been lucky enough to visit the place where all the crap in America flows to, let me clue you in: Cuban-Americans own and operate the city, top to bottom. Carlos isn't a minority. Not by a fucking long shot. He came from an upper-middle class family who set down roots in Hialeah years ago and have found their fortune in this country. His father ran, and probably still runs, a very successful business of his own. His mother was a real-estate agent. Like anyone in Miami over the age of 60, His grandfather sat around bitching about the bearded devil 200 miles to the south and waxing nostalgic about the beauty of Cuba before the revolution -- he also kicked my car when I parked on the lawn, the fucker. The fact is, Carlos's life as a teenager was as good as mine, if not better. Truth be told, that's why I had a problem with him spending his adulthood sitting on his ass in Miami watching Pace High football. He talked about going places. He had every resource and opportunity, and yet took none; proof that the small-town "I'll get out of here someday" mentality, mixed with complete emotional stasis exists, even in a big city.

I find it funny, though, that some people assumed otherwise about him -- and I know they did. I think that's what my mother used to refer to as "judging a book by its cover."

Something you should know about me: I believe that there's value in judging a book by its cover. There's a calculated reason that the cover of a book looks the way it does. It's there to give readers an idea of what's inside -- to be a logical and natural extension of its contents. If you see a book cover with a handgun and a target on it, with Washington DC in the background -- it's probably safe to assume that the story inside involves suspense and intrigue. If you see a picture of Fabio, you gotta figure the book's a romance. If you see the name Greg Behrendt and the words "He's Just Not That Into You," you know it's ridiculous and cynical crap written by an unfunny hack and churned out for really fucking stupid women. Fact is, though, there are elements of your personal "cover" which can't be changed. Your race can't be changed (unless you're Michael Jackson). Your age can't be adjusted (unless you're Joan Rivers). Your physical characteristics generally are what they are. A person should never be judged on these things.

But if you're black, you can choose to dress like a hip-hop thug. If you're a young girl, you can choose to wear tiny skirts, a bellybutton-ring and midriff-bearing tops. Guess what, though -- if you make choices like these, you forfeit the right to bitch when people make natural assumptions about who you are as a person. I'm not saying it's fair. In a perfect world, maybe everyone would be so fully actualized that there would be no prejudice. But you're not living in a perfect world, and ignoring the fact that there are certain consequences to the image you choose to project is just irresponsible and goddamned stupid.

Case in point: I have tattoos. Several. I don't pitch a fit when some people think I'm some kind of serial killer. I don't call them ignorant for not being able to see through to the "real me." I knew what I was signing-on for when I got the things. I accept the consequences of my actions. Maybe I'll prove to them that guys with tattoos are actually quite nice.

Okay, I'm back now after taking a five minute laugh break.

Another thing I've come to believe -- though I try not to prejudge based on race or ethnicity -- is that stereotypes exist for a reason, and that many of them are true. Not across the board, of course. But there's a reason they became stereotypes. No one woke up one morning and said, "From now on, I'm gonna think of all Italian guys as track-suit and gold-chain wearing, pasta-eating, Vitalis-using, bad-suit owning, Mafia capos." Post hoc ergo propter hoc, folks. The reality was there before the image. It created it, and some could easily argue that it now perpetuates it, creating an endless cycle that eventually turns stereotype into archetype. Incidentally, I'm Italian. I know plenty of people who fit the aforementioned description perfectly. Somewhere along the line, there were enough Jews who were thrifty, enough blacks who enjoyed fried chicken and enough Russian women who gave really great hand-jobs at Midtown bars -- wait, that's not well known?

Which finally brings me back to Shakira and her God-awful song. I knew I could somehow pull that off.

I realize that I just said that stereotypes exist for a reason, but I also know that most of society frowns on them, regardless. So why in the hell doesn't somebody complain that just about every Latin "Singing Sensation" tries to perpetuate the idea that Hispanics don't give a shit about music unless they can shake their asses to it? Isn't that mildly offensive? Shakira's a gorgeous woman, with a great voice. She's also made some really decent music. But her new song once again seems to remind the masses that Latinos and Latinas only value music in proportion to how well they can dance to it. Maybe it's just that I did actually grow up in Miami, which means that I still have post-traumatic stress disorder whenever I hear Miami Sound Machine, but I have to think that somewhere out there, there's a group of sad, rhythm-deficient Hispanics who feel the same way about this that Asians with no math skills feel about that particular stereotype.

Oh, and, add Wyclef Jean to the mix and you literally have the worst song in the history of recorded music.

Anyway, the true test of this post -- this airing of my opinion, free of any intended offense or venom -- will be the reaction. What will I be called this time?

I guess I shouldn't get into what I think about the idea of using the term "The N Word" in discussions about racism instead of just saying the actual word itself. So much for being adults.

Like I said, kid gloves.