It's Pat!

I'll attempt to keep this short, to the point, and as free of angry expletives as possible; suffice to say that if only twenty or so manage to find their way in, you can rest assured that I've exhibited a measure of self-control beyond my wildest expectations.

Please understand, I have no issue with Pat Robertson going on the air on The 700 Club and making ominous predictions about a massive terrorist attack which Jesus has personally informed him is going to happen toward the end of this year.

He's a fucking lunatic; that's what they do.

What I have an issue with is the fact that almost every supposedly responsible television news outlet in America actually devoted airtime to Punxsutawney Pat's ridiculous rhetoric this morning. They turned what would've otherwise been the hallucinatory ravings of a batshit-senile jackass that would've been seen by no more than the select few foolish enough to care -- into national news seen by practically every living human being in the country.

I swear to God, if anyone has the nerve to ask me why I want to get the hell out of this business, I'm going to pour gasoline on them and set them on fire.

Cue the Music

Good news! The Nightly Middle-Finger to MTV segment has successfully completed its stint in rehab -- where, as you remember, it was being treated for "exhaustion" -- and is ready to return to work. Unfortunately, its counselors have warned it against taking on too much responsibility too quickly, and therefore it will be rejoining us on a somewhat more limited basis (as in, whenever the hell I feel like dragging it out of its AA meetings).

That said, tonight's video is the latest from The Shins -- whom we should all be willing to forgive for being Zach Braff's* favorite band. It's the best song The Smiths never wrote: Phantom Limb.



(*For the record, I have nothing personal against Zach Braff; it's tough to get worked up about a guy like that. His movies aren't anything that can't be fixed with a little nudity, some chainsaws, nudity and chainsaws, or a subplot involving killer robotic demons from the future. Plus, he did nail Mandy Moore.)

2006: Year of the Douchebag (Prologue)

This Is the Way the Year Ends

And now, the national hangover.

Mother nature, as usual, appears not to be without a sardonic sense of humor. I can think of no other explanation as to why New York City at the moment looks as if it's sitting at the bottom of a sinkful of dirty dishwater. A short while ago, I left my apartment and walked through a chilly mist to the local grocery store -- my aim being to pick up a few rations to get my wife and I through a holiday weekend which our illustrious Idiot In Charge has seen fit to extend by a day, due to the entirely timely death of Gerald Ford. In spite of the fact that my neighborhood is a good twenty blocks from Times Square -- Ground Zero of the atomic blast of revelry that welcomed in the New Year -- the streets are nonetheless littered with the remains of last night's celebration. If you've ever thrown a party in your home, you're no doubt aware of what it feels like to wake up in the morning -- after all the giddy anticipation, followed by the gloriously bacchanalian blackout -- to find that your living room looks as if it's been redocrated by Hezbollah. Now take that living room and multiply it by 23.7 square miles and expand the guest list to eight-million; that should give you a good idea of what Manhattan looks like this morning.

Unlike so many of my island-mates, I actually didn't do the big party thing last night -- my wife and I instead choosing to ring in the New Year by relaxing on our couch with a bottle of Piper-Heidsieck, some take-out Bar-B-Q from a great little place up the street, and a freshly-purchased DVD copy of The Descent (which is just balls-out excellent by the way). As Jayne had to be at work at the pre-dawn hour of six this morning, we turned in at around 10pm and were fast asleep when 2006 slipped with great fanfare into 2007. We awoke just a little after midnight to kiss softly and wish each other a Happy New Year, then began to drift back into the kind of sleep necessary to ensure that Jayne wouldn't be an irritable wreck when the sun finally rose.

Unfortunately, we never quite made it there.

The pair of early twenty-something guys who live a couple of doors down from us -- roommates and recent additions to our building -- were determined not to let 2007 begin so quietly. They packed both their spatially-challenged apartment and, inevitably, the hallway leading up to our front door with drunken partygoers, none of whom seemed to comprehend that the person he or she was talking to was, in fact, standing two feet away. The resulting cacophony sounded like the Jackass guys were taping a stunt involving a herd of angry cattle, a hand-grenade, and a half-pipe right outside our door. Of course this went on for hours, or at least until I finally decided that these inconsiderate pricks needed to understand that they weren't living in the Teek-house anymore.

"Hey, my wife has to work in the morning -- take the fucking party somewhere else," I said, after throwing the door open to reveal a scowl on my face that I have to imagine would've struck fear into the heart of Damien Thorn.

The girls immediately apologized, while the guys -- popped collars, khaki pants, dickhead haircuts and all -- basically reacted with expected bravado.

"Yeah, well -- I have to work too," one of them snorted.

I quickly decided to overlook the fact that this response made no goddamned sense whatsoever, and just concentrate on the problem at hand.

"Kid, you don't wanna fucking start with me. Just take it inside," I returned, slamming the door as a final exclamation.

Within a few minutes, there was a somewhat feeble knock at my door and I opened it to find Sean Astin facing me -- or at least it looked like Sean Astin; and not so much the Sean Astin who played the loyal and loveable Hobbit, Samwise Gamgee, as the Sean Astin who played the sniveling and pathetic CTU bureaucrat on 24, Lynn McGill -- the one who always looked like a little boy trying to play grown-up, until he ultimately died in a puddle of his own vomit.

"Dude, I'm so sorry man," he stammered, his little puppy-dog eyes looking lost and baleful. "I'm the homeowner here. I'll take care of this."

Once again, I chose to overlook the fact that he, like the rest of us, is merely renting.

"Just shut them the hell up," I said, exchanging a nod and closing the door on him as he compliantly backed away.

As I turned to go back to bed -- resisting the temptation to look through the peep-hole to check and see if he was, in fact, stumbling off on oversized, hairy Hobbit feet -- one word popped into my head:

Douchebag.

And that got me thinking.

What's In a Name?

There's a decent little movie from the late '80s called From the Hip which features one of those scenes that's so cleverly-conceived that it's stuck in my mind for years. Hot-shot, wise-ass defense lawyer "Stormy" Weathers, played by Judd Nelson -- who at the time was still basking in the ultra-cool afterglow of his role as John Bender -- files a motion to debate whether or not the word "asshole" can be used in court to describe a plaintiff. His insistence is that the exact meaning of the word is so specific that there are no suitable substitutes; there simply is nothing that equates to calling someone an asshole. This claim is of course completely accurate; "asshole" has no worthy synonyms.

I've come to believe that the same holds true for the word "douchebag."

The ability to recognize a douchebag is a little like the ability to recognize pornography: you can't quite describe it blow by blow, but you damn sure know it when you see it. You don't really know how you know -- you just know. The second I threw open my front door and stood face-to-face with a phalanx of popped-collars filled with cheap liquor, Swingersesque/hip-hop-infused faux-cool, frat-bred swagger, Wall Street-corner office aspirations, and enough perceived entitlement to fill twenty Hummers, I knew that I was witnessing douchebaggery in its purest form. Still, for some reason, I spent a good portion of this morning -- in between allowing the unbridled insanity of David Caruso to wash over me as A&E broadcasted non-stop episodes of CSI: Miami -- trying to figure out just what makes someone a douchebag.

The Urban Dictionary has several descriptions of the word -- the best of which, I believe, is this:

An individual who has an over-inflated sense of self worth, compounded by a low level of intellegence... with no sense as to how moronic he truly is.

An adherence to this particular definition would explain why frat-boys are, by and large, complete douchebags -- as are white guys who talk like black guys (with special recognition going to those who excessively quote Chappelle's Show), and anyone who drinks Red Bull and vodka, ever.

The next question of course becomes, "Can a woman be a douchebag?"

My answer would be yes.

In addition to the fact that, simply as a point of reference, the term in reality describes a device which is used for cleaning a presumably dirty vagina, it would seem impossible to be able to apply the Urban Dictionary definition to, say, Kevin Federline without also being able to make it equally suit his female counterpart in worthlessness, Paris Hilton -- who is herself in desperate need of the use for which the douchebag was originally intended.

So, knowing what we know -- that the word "douchebag" has a highly specific connotation, and that it can easily apply to both men and women -- only one conclusion is possible:

2006 was most certainly the "Year of the Douchebag."

Never in my lifetime have more unrestrained douchebags risen to such a state of pre-eminence in our popular culture. They've achieved levels of distinction heretofore unseen in recent human history -- from the "taste-makers" in the world of film and television, to the previously inculpable realm of literature, all the way to the highest corridors of power in our nation's capital, douchebags were everywhere last year. They had a say in what you saw, heard -- even how you felt and what you were and weren't allowed to do on occasion. They made the headlines and the gossip pages -- they made music; they made laws.

I usually abhor the ubiquitous beginning/end-of-year attempts to categorize everything into a series of lists, but then again I also abhor melodramatic overacting, yet I continue to willingly surrender my brain to hour-upon-hour of pulverizing at the hands of Almighty Caruso as the CSI: Miami marathon rolls on.

My point is this:

Next, the Top Ten Douchebags of 2006

Be glad it's all over.

One Fine Dave

Some of my fondest memories of growing up in Miami rest in a now-defunct magazine called Tropic. It was the Miami Herald's Sunday supplement, and it featured some of South Florida's best writers and most creative minds. From Carl Hiaasen, to Gene Weingarten, to T.M. Shine, to Joel Achenbach, to -- of course -- the legendary Dave Barry.

Dave stood out not only for being one of the most genuinely funny people on the planet, but for being one of the nicest guys around. His weekly columns were the stuff to which all humor writers aspire. I looked forward his brilliance each week with eager anticipation, but there was one particular column of his that I awaited like a kid waits for Christmas: his "Year in Review."

Tropic, sadly, is long gone -- but Dave still writes his year-ender for the last Sunday of every year, and I still look forward to it.

This year's is no exception.

Dave Barry's 2006 Year in Review

While You Were Sleeping

There are apparently new bridges to cross, even at the wizened age of thirty-seven. I know this only because a few hours ago, I awoke from a premiere event in my long and adventurous life: A 24-hour straight sleep. My wife and I went out on Friday night with the understanding that we had nothing important to do the following day, came home without turning on the TV, went through a bottle of pinot noir, crawled into bed -- and when we fully awoke, it was 9pm on Saturday night. As she works on Sundays, we figured there was no sense in trying to go anywhere, so we said the hell with it and rolled over and went back to sleep.

The next thing I knew, it was 6am this morning; Saturday had completely vanished into a black abyss of slumber.

I have to admit -- it ruled.

This extended tour in dreamland was made possible by the fact that, while our living room has large windows which look out onto the backstreets of the Upper East Side and the buildings surrounding ours, our bedroom is completely windowless. It features one exposed brick wall, and a signed Picasso lithograph adorning the opposite wall -- which we've painted a light bluish color called "Morning Mist" or something which sounds equally grandiose -- but if the door separating the bedroom and bathroom from the rest of our apartment is closed, it's almost impossible to judge the time outside. Our bedroom basically becomes its own little time capsule.

The reason I bring this up is not so much to taunt those who feel as if they never get enough sleep, or to prove that my wife and I are essentially lifeless -- it's to illustrate the fact that I slept through the execution of Saddam Hussein.

I awoke this morning to find that -- not surprisingly -- Saddam had been taken to the gallows late Friday night, and that his body had already been transported to its place of burial in his hometown of Tikrit. My wife and I were curled up on the couch in our own little world as Saddam was hanged, we were happily in bed with the covers pulled up to our necks while the news networks assuredly went batshit with wall-to-wall coverage of the event and while the hawks and doves battled it out for airtime commentary supremacy. I have no doubt that Fox News brought in Sean Hannity and Bill O'Reilly to bukkake each other with unabashed self-satisfaction, or that its sister publication, the New York Post, came up with some clever headline in 80" font, gleefully proclaiming that a tyrant had justly gone to his grave and that, as usual, America kicked ass.

I missed all of that.

Instead, I woke up just in time to see the actual video of the execution -- as photographed by a cell phone camera.

There's something to be said for cutting out all of the superfluous nonsense -- the opinion, the chatter, the bloviation, the self-righteousness -- and seeing this event for what it really is: a frenzied lynching. As I mentioned a few days ago, no one in their right mind will mourn the loss of Saddam Hussein, and yet as I watch his execution, what strikes me is that he's the only dignified presence in the room. The dictator -- the Butcher of Baghdad -- goes to his death with a quiet defiance. It certainly isn't the unhinged madman we've seen in recent court appearances. On the contrary, it's difficult not to feel a certain amount of sympathy for Saddam as he's taunted by a chaotic cadre of masked men, then strung up and unceremoniously dropped to his death. A civilized proceeding it absolutely is not.

That's the first problem.

Once again, as I mentioned a few days ago, we've witnessed the barbaric bloodlust indigenous to that region many times before -- we've even been the target of it on more than one occasion. Yet for some reason, many in this country -- from our idiot president on down -- are willing to look the other way this time, simply because it's directed at someone we don't particularly care for. I'm inclined to think that if we're really trying to bring a level of civility to Iraq not seen under Saddam Hussein, a kangaroo court verdict followed by a hanging at the hands of an angry mob more interested in revenge than justice isn't a step in the right direction.

Then there's problem number two.

If the brutality of frenzied, masked executioners isn't enough to strike fear into the hearts of Americans, what these executioners shout at Saddam as they put the rope around his neck should be. They're shouting allegiance to Muqtada al-Sadr, Iraq's new religious and political demagogue -- leader of the formerly-oppressed Shia Muslim sect in Iraq and a man once considered public enemy number one by our troops on the ground. Essentially, the only concession to the propriety of the modern world being made by these men is the fact that they're forced to hang Saddam as opposed to sawing his head off with a machete. If you believe that the latter isn't their preferred method of execution, you need to have your own head checked.

For all of his faults, and they were many, Saddam Hussein was a secular leader -- a man who, despite paying lip-service when he felt it could benefit him, rarely invoked the name of Almighty Allah in his decision-making. The weed which has sprouted up in Saddam's absence and will certainly continue to grow -- as evidenced by the loyalties of his executioners -- is a true believer; he's a man who wants nothing more than to see Iraq re-created as a fundamentalist Islamic nation. That eventuality should terrify this country far more than the actions of a dictator who at the very least followed the trusted paradigm of most dictators -- namely that his main goal at all times was to remain in power.

Maybe you celebrate the death of Saddam Hussein; maybe you find it sickening. It barely matters, because the videotape of his execution proves that what's taken Saddam's place in Iraq is infinitely worse than the dictator himself.

Somebody wake me when it's over.

Time's Up

The U.S. has now officially handed over Saddam Hussein to the Iraqis for execution. Earlier today, his personal effects were gathered.

Excuse the reference to Woody Allen's Love & Death, but I can't help but wonder who'll get his moustache.

Dead Presidents

Upon learning of the death of Gerald Ford, my first thought was to recall the immortal words of Dorothy Parker when she heard that Calvin Coolidge had died: "How could they tell?" The reason for this of course -- as much as I'm loathe to admit it -- is that like so many in this country, I've willingly allowed myself to fall victim to what's become the accepted political paradigm these days, namely that our elected officials must, first and foremost, possess the kind of instantly identifiable charisma that would convince myself and millions of others to walk across hot coals should they deem it necessary. If there are any lingering doubts as to the truth of this statement, it would take nothing more than a quick scan of the cable news networks or a brief flip through any magazine from People to U.S. News and World Report -- both enablers of the somewhat manufactured phenomenon known as "Obamamania" -- to put them soundly to rest. Like most of my generation, I was vaguely aware of Ford acting as the final punctuation -- certainly a period more than an exclamation point -- to a tumultuous time I barely remember; aside from that he represented little more to me than the man who unwittingly kick-started the tragic and unnecessary career of Chevy Chase, and who ruined my childhood one hour at a time by consistently scheduling his tedious news conferences during Space:1999.

Even two attempts on Ford's life seemed to fall strangely under the radar when juxtaposed against both the chaotic and bitterly divisive era which preceded his short presidency, and the economic tempest and overwhelming crisis of American morale which followed it.

Gerald Ford, as far as many of my generation were concerned, amounted to little more than a footnote in the history books.

And yet I've never been more heartbroken at the death of a former president.

There's an undeniably wretched irony to the fact that a man of such quiet dignity, a man for whom politics was more about the unassuming valor of public service than it was about the swaggering bluster of personal ascendancy, has left us during this particular time in our nation's history. To lose Gerald Ford now seems less like the death of one man than it does the sad and unfortunate end of an era in American politics -- a time when not all leaders felt as if they also had to be celebrities. Ford never asked for the presidency, but he accepted it and made a series of difficult decisions which he knew at the time would more than likely cost him a full term in office. His goal was to heal a nation divided by war, political corruption, and overwhelming distrust of those in power.

Yesterday, from his ranch in Crawford, Texas, President Bush touted Ford's "honorable conduct" and integrity, as well as his role in restoring confidence in the presidency, saying, "For a nation that needed healing and an office that needed a calm and steady hand, (he) came along when we needed him most."

Once again, there is enough irony in that simple statement -- particularly in the fact that it's being issued by a man like George W. Bush -- to sink a fleet of battleships. You don't have to be politically astute to understand that in a perfect world, Bush would be applying that same description to his own successor. America's next president will be saddled with the gargantuan task of healing the wounds, bridging the divisions, and cleaning up the messes created by this administration -- one, which may be about to get infinitely worse with the death of another president.

Half-a-world away from Rancho Mirage, California -- where Gerald Ford took his last breath -- deposed Iraqi President Saddam Hussein awaits execution, which could quite literally come at any moment. Less than twenty-four hours before President Bush expressed condolences at the death of Gerald Ford, he expressed smug satisfaction at word that Saddam Hussein would be going to the gallows. The reaction was somewhat expected when you consider the seemingly bottomless reservoir of will that Bush possessed to put people to death during his tenure as Texas governor; it is thoroughly expected when you consider the depth of self-delusion he possesses when it comes to his understanding of cause and effect on the streets of Iraq. The fact that the trial of Saddam Hussein was looked upon by Iraq's constantly-evolving insurgency as nothing more than the underhanded work of an American proxy is unfortunate; the fact that his execution will almost certainly fuel further violence against U.S. servicemen and women -- turning them into moving targets wherever they stand, sit or sleep -- is deplorable. If one soldier dies as a direct result of Saddam's execution, simply as a matter of numbers, it will not have been worth it.

Make no mistake, few sane people would mourn the death of Saddam Hussein; I count myself among them. There are almost none more deserving of being dragged kicking and screaming to the gallows, then having their bodies dumped in the street. However, in a region where a shockingly primitive level of barabarism is not only accepted but encouraged -- one that has at times left the civilized world awe-struck by its staggering brutality (think Daniel Pearl and Nick Berg) -- is it really wise for our president to not only voice his approval for such bloodlust, but to do it at the potential cost of American lives?

As it turns out, Gerald Ford would've said no. That's because as it turns out, Gerald Ford was against Bush's folly in Iraq from the very beginning. The man who once made it his responsibility to heal the nation, understood that the simplest way to do that was to never break it apart in the first place.

Very soon, former President Ford will be laid to rest, and America will mourn and remember him with great ceremony and fanfare.

Very soon, former Iraqi President Saddam Hussein will be laid to rest, and how Iraq will mourn and remember him is anyone's guess -- but with American kids in the line of fire, that's exactly the problem.