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!
Thursday, June 29, 2006
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.
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.
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.
Wednesday, June 28, 2006
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.
Tuesday, June 27, 2006
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.
-- 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.
Sunday, June 25, 2006
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.
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.
Friday, June 23, 2006
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.
#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.
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