Bizzaro World

If batshit-crazy were a religion, South Florida would be Vatican City.

I can't even begin to describe what you're about to see.

Every single thing about the following piece of video just screams the special brand of lunacy that can only come from the place that gave you Anna Nicole Smith's death and the Amazing Weeping Judge, hanging chads, the Versace murder, dead people voting, the legal battle for the right to sacrifice animals, Elian Gonzalez, the Cocaine Cowboys, and "Officer" Shaquille O'Neal.

It's shot by an office surveillance camera, and begins with the routine crash of an elderly woman's car through a plate-glass window and into a crowd of people indoors. I say routine because, although no doubt shocking to those living in civilization, this kind of thing happens almost daily in South Florida. In fact, the third largest cause of death in South Florida is eighty-year-old women who've confused the gas pedal with the brake. (#2 is alligator attack, #1 is simply not remembering how to breathe.)

As it turns out though, this particular elderly woman didn't plow her car into just any old office. No, the camera shooting this seemingly unbelievable scene is located inside the DMV.

And what was she doing at the DMV to begin with?

Why she was called back in to retake her driving test of course.

But then something happens that takes the entire surreal scene to a whole new, hallucinatory level. As you watch the video, pay close attention to the upper right hand corner -- slow it down or stop it if you have to. You'll notice a man come into the frame dressed in what appears to be blue tights and a red cape.

Yes, he's dressed as Superman.

There's a man walking by inexplicably wearing a Superman costume.

He doesn't stop to help. He doesn't do much of anything in fact. He's just -- there. Normally this would seem insane, but after what you've just witnessed, his appearance feels oddly Zen -- calming and appropriate, like the signature on a Dali painting.

My friends, welcome to South Florida. Don't fight it -- just let the hypnotic madness wash over you. You're home now.

"I'm the King of the Jews!"

Renowned megalomaniac James Cameron -- director of Titanic and Piranha 2: The Spawning -- has now figured out a way to irritate not only everyone in this plane of existence but apparently the next as well. He claims that his new documentary, The Lost Tomb of Jesus, reveals just that: the final resting place of Jesus Christ.

The Discovery Channel special details an archaeological dig in Jerusalem which stumbled upon a sepulcher containing ten stone burial boxes. The ancient caskets bear the names of Jesus, an immediate family (possibly brothers and sisters), Mary (presumably, the "Magdalene" variety) and -- most startling -- what could be the offspring of Jesus. If any of these relics were to be proven legitimate, they would render the basic tenet of the Christian faith essentially null and void -- as well as leave open the possibility that Jesus's brother could very easily have been a guy named "Jeff of Nazareth" whose main claim to fame was his ability to turn water into wine coolers.

It goes without saying that religious "scholars" are now falling all over themselves to debunk the find and disparage its proponents.

That's where things get interesting.

Christopher Hitchens may be a surly, drunk son-of-a-bitch, but there's a great quote from him that's worth keeping in mind right about now: "That which can be asserted without evidence can be disproven without evidence." When applied to this specific case, the suggestion is painfully obvious: whether or not the tomb of Jesus has truly been found is irrelevant; it's not needed to disprove a belief-system that has no evidence backing it up. When it comes to disputing the spectacular convictions of the faithful, it's as easy to say "that's just irrational nonsense" and be done with it, as it is to go digging for contradictory evidence. The other side of that coin, unfortunately, is that a belief buttressed by nothing but wishful thinking is immune to the typically persuasive powers of contradictory evidence anyway. You just can't argue with someone whose primary justification is "because the Bible says so."

So why aren't the faithful skeptics employing this bulletproof "argument" in their attempts to discredit the discovery in Jerusalem? The answer is not only simple -- it's a delicious tip of the cards from a group which portrays itself as ready, willing and able to consistently rely on faith and faith alone.

The truth? They know that faith isn't enough -- that at some point a concession to reason is imperative.

The solution? They attempt to apply logic to claims which have no basis in reality -- to argue their points as if they were backed by accepted and irrefutable evidence.

The result? Well, it's damn funny.

Case in point -- the quote of the day. Father David O'Connell of the oxymoronically-labeled Catholic University voiced his considerable doubt as to the veracity of Cameron's claim with this simple bit of common sense:

"Jesus of history is often referred to as 'Jesus of Nazareth.' Joseph the father was from Nazareth. Why would they be buried in Jerusalem? It doesn't make sense."

In case you missed that homerun of irony, let's recap: a man who believes that the son of a supreme being was born on earth of a virgin, rose from the dead three days after being executed and ascended into the firmament to be with the benevolent father who allowed him to be executed in the first place and who takes an interest in the day-to-day existence of every man, woman and child on the planet, so much so that he's keeping a personal tally to help him decide where we'll spend eternity after we die -- this guy says that being buried sixty miles away from your hometown doesn't make sense.

I've met people like Father O'Connell. They're the ones who sit through movies in which alien invaders spend two hours decimating the earth with giant spaceships, sucking human blood out of their victims and spreading it across the landscape -- and then feel compelled to comment incredulously, "Oh that's impossible!" at the fact that the aliens are finally done in by bacteria.

Jesus was known as "Jesus of Nazareth." Joseph was the father of Jesus. How do we know this? The Bible tells us. How do we know the Bible can be trusted? Because it says it can.

If there's a better example of perfectly circular reasoning I'm unaware of it.

Just as entertaining (as well as enlightening, if such a word can be used in this context) is a widely-circulated press-release from the Christian Newswire entitled, "Bible Scholars: Ten Reasons Why Jesus Tomb Claim is Bogus." Among its supposedly unassailable points -- presented with a tone of arrogance and condescension typically (and falsely) attributed to those who advocate scientific fact over ancient superstition:

"There is no historical evidence that Jesus was ever married or had a child."

"The earliest followers of Jesus never called him 'Jesus, Son of Joseph.'" (as was inscribed on the stone casket)

"There is no DNA evidence that this is the historical Jesus of Nazareth."

And my personal favorite:

"The statistical analysis is untrustworthy."

I won't bother pointing out, once again, the laughable irony of that last statement. You do have to marvel though at the brilliant penultimate introduction of the DNA straw-man -- it serves the purpose of hanging those know-it-all scientists with their own rope while cleverly tying it into one big Gordian knot of zero-sum argumentation: There will likely never be DNA samples of Jesus, which means it can never be proven that Jesus was merely human and not divine; which means that it can never be proven that Jesus existed at all. Each side gets to go about its merry way, safe in the knowledge that is has technically neither won nor lost the debate.

So, after taking the case into careful consideration and weighing all the relevant "evidence," what singular conclusion can be drawn, according to the enlightened authors of the ten-point plan?

"In light of all the incredible number of problems with the recent claim that Jesus' [sic] grave has been found, the time-honored, multi-faceted evidence for the bodily resurrection of Jesus is more convincing than ever."

Well, of course it is. That just makes sense.

I'm reminded of something I saw years ago -- a hilarious and thoroughly disturbing cult documentary called Mondo Elvis. For two hours, it chronicled a brand of deluded lunacy that was unlike anything I had seen before (but unfortunately have witnessed in person since). It's central focus: the small but ferocious segment of the American population that remains obsessed with Elvis Presley. It takes no insight or ingenuity to recognize the analogous relationship between the single-minded insanity on display in Mondo Elvis, and the occasionally ludicrous behavior of those adhering to the demands of a faith-based religion. Each has a central figure of worship who's been afforded mythic, sometimes supernatural qualities. Each requires unquestioning loyalty. Each casts the utterly irrational as commonly accepted fact. Each has a cadre of acolytes who honestly think that they're sane, reasonable people -- in spite of an overriding belief-system which is on par with that of your average schizophrenic.

The most memorable, unnerving moment in the movie comes about half-way through. A middle-aged, skeletal nightmare with bleach-blonde hair, Appalachian bridge-work and a cigarette that's been smoked down to solid ash twists and twitches uncomfortably in a decrepit recliner which sits against a paneled wall inside her trailer. With menacing intensity, she pushes her focus directly into the camera and proclaims her own personal mystery of faith. Although to her, there's no faith; there's only fact -- and the mystery is nothing less than the identity of the man who gave her life.

Her belief: Elvis is her father.

Her rationale for this seemingly dubious deduction: her mother never told her that Elvis wasn't her father.

She has no proof, but she has plenty of faith -- and a bulletproof argument -- and that's enough for her to continue her fantasy.

"That which can be asserted without evidence can be disproven without evidence."

I doubt we'll see any proof that James Cameron, or anyone else, has found the actual tomb of Jesus Christ. Then again, I doubt we'll see any proof that Jesus Christ ever existed in the first place.

But as long as no one can prove he didn't exist, that will be enough for the faithful to continue their fantasy.

Fool's Gold

25 Completely Random Comments My Wife and I Made to Each Other while Watching the 79th Annual Academy Awards:

1. "Who turned Spike Lee into a Muppet?"

2. "Jessica Biel's twenty-four -- she can totally pull off the nipple thing."

3. "What the hell did Penelope Cruz just say?"

4. "Oh look, Santa left a dead girl under the tree." (Upon seeing Nicole Kidman)

5. "I can't believe that Velvet Jones here goes down on Portia De Rossi every night."

6. "I wonder if they'll make Adriana Barraza stay and clean the place after everyone leaves."

7. "Didn't anybody good die last year?"

8. "Hi, I'm Cameron Diaz -- and I'm walking funny because I totally had to do anal with Djimon Hounsou to get a ticket here tonight."

9. "Do you wonder if Middle-America suddenly feels a solidarity with Hollywood now that it's being taken over by foreigners? 'There ain't no way we're gonna let a bunch a' them Mexkins come in here and start thinkin' they can make better movies than Sofia Coppola! Not on my watch!'"

10. "What'd I miss? Did L.A. mercifully sink into the ocean while I was peeing?"

11. "No, seriously -- what the hell is Penelope Cruz saying?"

12. "Academy-Award-Winner Reese Witherspoon (pause, then uncontrollable laughter)."

13. "Hey look, it's the other girl from Dreamgirls."

14. "HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!!!" (Upon scanning the dial during a commercial and coming across a hysterically alarmist bit of Fox News Channel counter-programming called Reel Politics: If Hollywood Ran America.)

15. "Ah yes, this is sure to liven things up -- James Taylor and Randy Newman."

16. "He loves San Dimas!" (While watching Clint Eastwood translate for Ennio Morricone)

17. "Is Alan Arkin high?"

18. "I get the feeling that Travolta's spent a lot of time trying to figure out how to curl his penis under and screw his own ass. He's just got that look."

19. "I'd like to thank God, for crushing the dreams of those four other women and pushing them further toward prescription painkiller abuse."

20. "George Miller? Is that the same George Miller who directed Mad Max and the Road Warrior? Damn -- if I had known that Happy Feet could end with a bunch of penguins being dragged through the dirt by Wez and the Toe-cutter I might've bothered to see it."

21. "I've gotta throw up." (I was sick to my stomach all night -- a problem no doubt exacerbated by the Oscars.)

22. "Hi, I'm Tom Cruise -- remember me?"

23. "What, did Jay-Z not make it through the metal detector?"

24. "We've come this far -- we may as well stay up for the rest of it."

25. "At least Renee Zellweger wasn't there."

For Dad

If you've ever wondered who to credit -- or conversely, to blame -- for the mischievous jackass who runs this site, the figurative finger can legitimately be pointed in only one direction: South Florida, at a guy name Ralph.

He's a bit of a legend around my hometown -- following up several years as a decorated Miami-Dade cop with a decade-long stint as an award-winning investigative reporter. He is without a doubt one of the brightest and most fascinating people you're likely to ever meet. He can speak intelligently on more topics than I would dare go into, and on a more personal level, possesses a kind of strength, dignity and sense of honor at which someone like myself can only marvel. If I were ever to become half the man -- half the person -- he is, then it would be my proudest achievement in life.

I'm lucky to know him.

I'm even luckier to have him as my father.

Today is his 67th birthday.

Happy Birthday Dad.

Year Four-Zero

I was never a huge fan of Rage Against the Machine. It's not that they didn't make some great music from time to time, or that their brand of politicized wrath didn't have a welcome place in a world of otherwise innocuous pop tripe -- it's just that after awhile, all that righteous indignation and soapbox castigation got a little, well, old. There's only so much humorless haranguing I'm willing to endure before my contrarian nature involuntarily kicks in and I find myself standing in line at the Gap, actually demanding to walk out with the fleece-hoodie that resulted in the most Guatemalan sweatshop deaths.

I don't like being told what to do -- whether the authority figure in question is a religion, a government, or a sanctimonious rock band.

My other issue with Rage, was that they never evolved. Their sound didn't change one bit over the course of their career -- a liability for any band, but a glaringly obvious Achilles Heel for a group whose sound came to be an almost caricaturish barrage of contrived outrage.

Once again, you can only do the anger thing for so long.

With all due respect to those who desperately insist that forty is the new twenty, I find myself once again fearing that humorless rage is in danger of becoming self-parodic as I listen to the new material from pissed-off quatrogenarian Trent Reznor, better known as the mastermind behind Nine Inch Nails. Understand, I've loved Nine Inch Nails since their inception. During my early to mid-twenties, they provided the crushing soundtrack to nearly every second of pain, confusion, indecision and self-destruction that I willingly or unwillingly endured. Trent was like a friend, comforting me through my worst moments by encouraging me to embrace them. I'm still a fan, and I always will be.

The new Nine Inch Nails album, Year Zero, promises to be as furious and aggressive as ever. But here's the thing -- Trent's now forty-one years old; at that age, screaming about "My Violent Heart" runs the risk of coming off as terribly insincere or just outright silly.

I realize that I'll be accused of blasphemy by some of my dearest friends -- in particular Votar, who's already been frighteningly detailed about the effect that Year Zero's impending release is having on the intransigence of his penis -- but being that I'm never above a cheap shot, allow me to suggest a new track listing more befitting someone of Trent's "maturity."

1. Terrible Eyes
2. With False Teeth
3. Starbucks Inc.
4. The Hand that Bleeds (The Arthritis Song)
5. Getting Smaller (The Penis Song)
6. Head-On a Hole (Apply Directly to the Forehead)
7. The Line and Everything Else Begins to Blur
8. Beside You in Very Little Time
9. The Way Out is Through My Colon
10. Every Day is Exactly the Same (in Suburbia)
11. The Frail
12. Closer to God, Literally
(Hidden Track) My Violent Prostate

And Now, a Message for Judge Larry Seidlin from Chez's Evil Twin, Garth

Kill yourself.

No seriously man, just fucking kill yourself.

All you had to do was conduct yourself like a professional -- to rise above the insanity that was dumped into your courtroom every day like garbage trucks filling up a goddamned landfill and maybe, maybe, be the one mature adult who brought some dignity and decorum to the proceedings. I mean, that was your job, right? You're a fucking judge; it's in your job description to be wise and just.

But no -- that shit was too much to ask.

Instead, you pretended that you were auditioning for Catskills Idol. You made sure that no matter what was going on, that camera was trained right on you at all times and that you were giving Hollywood the show of a lifetime baby. Like everyone else involved in the fucking miasma known as the death of Anna Nicole Smith, you were a despicable opportunist who saw the chance to grab the spotlight and maybe come out of this thing far better off than when you found it.

Congratulations, maybe you have. Maybe through your incoherent rambling, your tasteless off-handed comments, your painful Bronxian folksiness, your CRYING for Christ's sake -- maybe you earned yourself exactly what you wanted: your own permanent television show. Maybe you'll be the next Nancy Grace -- certainly the loftiest of goals amongst legal professionals these days. I mean really, how hard is it? All you have to do is piss on every bit of your commitment to responsible jurisprudence and you're halfway there.

I read an interview with your wife over the weekend. My first reaction was to marvel at the fact that someone actually looked into those weepy little eyes and listened to that annoying fucking accent and thought to herself, "Yeah, this is what I really want to wake up to every day for the rest of my God-forsaken life." I felt pity for her -- really. But then I got a little further into the interview and she started babbling about how brilliant you are; how compassionate; how you deserve that TV show you want, and I realized that she's as much of a fucking idiot as you are. It's always heartwarming when stupid people find each other, although it's nothing short of tragic for the rest of us because it's all but guaranteed that they'll reproduce.

Look, I'm gonna wrap this up because I've wasted too much time on your sorry ass already, and besides, I need to start scanning the internet for pictures of Jessica Biel in that see-through top she wore to the Oscars last night -- but in case I haven't made myself clear, let me say it again.

You're a fucking hack. A shame. An embarrassment to the legal system.

You don't deserve a television show, and that should never have been your goal to begin with.

What you deserve is a missing battery in a carbon monoxide detector.

Fucking louse.

(As always, the views and opinions of Garth do not necessarily reflect those of Chez who's still trying to iron out that thing with the guy that happened awhile ago down there in South Florida, and could use all the judicial help he can get.)

The Ugly Truth

My profound loathe for Grey's Anatomy is by now the stuff of legend. I couldn't be more serious about the fact that if tomorrow morning the craft services truck on the set of this abysmally bad show exploded into a ball of flame, setting Patrick Dempsey's hair on fire, causing him to then run screaming into his fellow cast-members, systematically burning them alive one-by-one, I'd grab a nice cold beer and smile that justice had finally been served and the quality of network television had improved just a tiny bit.

Unfortunately, such a felicitous reckoning would still leave us with Ugly Betty.

Look, I don't want to rain on the fiesta of the many who strangely believe that this gruesome weekly spectacle constitutes a refreshing and brash step forward for the cause of Hispanic-American crossover television; but its popularity -- not to mention its beatification at the hands of a self-congratulatory Hollywood -- doesn't change one very simple fact: it's not a very good show. At face-value -- no pun intended -- its writing is pedestrian and hackneyed, essentially taking one premise and drawing it out not just for one hour, but for another and another and another. I get it. Betty's unattractive but plucky. She overcomes the animus/prejudice of those around her by the sheer force of her good nature, indomitable spirit and the powers she apparently derives from wearing the cape of little-known South-of-the-Border superhero Guadalajaraman. She proves that true beauty is on the inside and through this educates the ignorant, infuriates the vainglorious and fascinates everyone else -- occasionally without even meaning to.

Scratch the surface though, and there's something about the show that really rubs me the wrong way.

Ugly Betty is almost Wizard of Ozian in its disparate portrayals of cultures -- Hispanic vs. Anglo. Betty's co-workers -- her non-ethnic co-workers -- are almost exclusively cast as soulless and superficial; they're prosaic drones whose sole purpose seems to involve doing little more than creating a one-dimensional, monochromatic background against which Betty can so brilliantly contrast. Betty's own household meanwhile is a nearly insuppressible explosion of color, passion and pathos -- with her family portrayed as a bunch of delightfully charming, eminently lovable middle-class eccentrics. They're adorable, fun and above-all, progressive in their seemingly bottomless reservoir of acceptance and lack of prejudice.

It's easy to see which side of the cultural coin the producers come down on.

It goes without saying however that it's never a good idea to attempt to subvert one negative stereotype by perpetuating another -- particularly when the latter is cast in a villainous role.

I have no doubt that the creators of Ugly Betty and its titular star, America Ferrara, will continue to be diefied in the media and by Hollywoood simply for the ground they've broken -- and of course, because it's fashionable and fiscally prudent given the size of the Hispanic demographic which now calls the contiguous forty-eight home. I just wish that they'd created a show that was a little less insulting -- and a lot less dumb.

Anybody know Lou Dobbs's phone number?

Maybe he can get Betty deported.

Incidentally, I deserve a medal for not making a "Vote for Pedro" joke.

(About the picture -- I do my best to stay away from inside jokes on this site, but this time the opportunity was just too perfect. There was no way in hell I was going to force myself to stare at Ugly Betty's, well, ugliness everytime I opened the page -- amazingly though, when I ran "Ugly Betty" through Google image search, the above picture of Sam the Eagle came up. I post it for Matt K., Matt S., Chris, Spencer, Jayne -- and of course, Casey.)