Edinboro

I always forget how beautiful it is, Edinboro, Pa., how the lake is just the right size, how the little narrow Lakeside Drive is but a ribbon wrapping it all up, how good it smells, and how wonderfully life slows down there. My Grandmother is quite the trendsetter in Edinboro. Always has been. Many years ago, she and her husband Bernard came to this little place that at the time was, I believe, pretty much just a hole with water in it surrounded by some land. They bought a lot and just camped on it for a few years before they started building the Cottage. The little place, built with strictly non-union labor (read: they pretty much built the place themselves), was where I would spend a large part of every summer as a kid. There are few places better to sleep when you're that age then in the top bunk of a small room that is lined exclusively in knotty pine. I can still smell that house just by thinking about it. In the mid '80s, Grandma and Grandpa decided it just wasn't enough room for them anymore. They swapped a lot they owned across the lake for the one adjacent to the Cottage and built their dream Edinboro home, palacial for Edinboro standards at the time. Here, the first Edinboro settlers became among the first to build a full-fledged residential dwelling. Now, of course, everyone's doin' it. My Grandpa died in '86. He rests across the lake from the house at Edinboro Cemetery. His plot was among our stops on this visit, a final footnote to an eye-opening weekend. It's easy in one's 20s, I think, to forget, ignore, or take for granted one's roots. How valuable it is that my elders found this little spot, fell in love with it, and dug in. How extraordinary it is that I was offered such an ideal and happy place to play and learn my way to adulthood. How enormous it is that everywhere I go and everything I do, I carry millions of minutes of life experience with me earned at this little lake. It is mind-boggling, and I thank my Grandparents profusely for giving it to me.

January 27, 2003 Change When you grow up with a person, you can have a conversation in an instant, without words, one that you've never had before and will never have again, one that preludes a moment that changes everything. I sat on the sofa downstairs watching the Super Bowl with the same bit of interest as usual, and heard my aunt ask my Uncle Jay if it was time to go snap some pictures. The comment did not pass my brain's triage, so I sat and kept watching the game with the same bit of interest, hoping one of those funny commercials would come on again. Then, I had to pee. So I went upstairs. What should have clicked in my little brain when my aunt said that was that Jay was getting ready to document where he is in his transition. By the time I got upstairs, he had removed his sweater, and my aunt had her digital drawn. This is what he said to me, not in any words, not even in gestures, just in one milisecond of hesitation: I'm about to take off this T-shirt, and you'll see for the first time ever what I look like after top surgery plus a few short weeks of healing. For me, there's no turning back, there hasn't been since I had this done. For you, that point of no return is right now. After this, you will not know me any other way. I will no longer be your aunt in transition�I will be your uncle. That scares me a little, and it should you too, and so I'll wait for just one second to give you a chance to leave the room before I take off my shirt and change both of our lives forever. So, what do you think, nephew. You ready? I didn't flinch.

Revelry We had all but give up on Whitey's. I had for some time considered to to be "my bar." It is a wonderful place. Unlike many bar-n-grill types of places, it is spacious. They grill up the best burgers in town. Generally, I like the ambience. Generally. It was one Friday night in July. I was to meet Jay and Jessica there for the usual night of revelry. Usually, I look forward to cracking open that wooden door, stepping out of the heat and sitting down at the bar and having a nice, cold beer. On this early Friday evening, though, I stepped into hell. They had this deejay there, and the air conditioning was broken. This deejay was playing songs and yelling trivia questions to the audience, which mostly consisted of overly-testosteronated, whooping military types. We sat in one of their booths just to be farther from the blaring speakers, and at one time told the guy that we were finding it hard to have a conversation, and could he turn it down just a bit? Eventually, they turned the lights down and started moving the pool tables and putting up signs that read: "No Moshing Or Aggressive Behavior." This, to us, was a sure sign that it was time to split. We did, and we swore that we'd never be back. (We ended up at Galaxy Hut.) We weren't, until last night. The plan was to go bar hopping in Clarendon. We'd start with some billiards at Whitey's, in the early afternoon before the hell began. Well, it never did, or at least, not that I remember. So, we never left. This morning I'm feeling a bit sluggish, but it's good to know that the bar formerly known as "my bar" hasn't entirely lost its mind.

A Horrible Reenactment

September 20, 2002 A Horrible Reenactment Hey, boy. Yeah, paw? Let's us rush the field and beat the shit outta that bald guy. Whut? Yeah, let's us rush the field and beat the shit outta that funny lookin' bald guy. Why for, paw? 'Cuz he looks funny. I think he might be mixed. Mixed, paw? Aw, come on. Well, mixed or funny or something. He don't look right. Sigh. C'mon, you big sissy. I betcha we can take 'im. Yeah, but paw, it'll be on teevee and all. All my friends'll see. Boy, tell you what. You jump out with me an' beat the shit outta that bald guy, and I'll buy you a six pack of the Rock when we git home. Yeah? Yeah. How 'bout a pack o' cigarettes? Mmmmmmm, boy, you drive a hard bargain. And rubbbers, paw. I really need some rubbers. You know how Colleen is about me wearin' them rubbers when we're a' bumpin' rugs. Will you buy me some rubbers, paw? If you go down into that field with me and beat the shit outta that bald guy, I'll buy you some rubbers, boy. All right, paw. You got it. Okay, boy! I knew you had it in you! Let's go get that mixed motherscratcher. Yeah! Hey, paw? Yeah, boy? I love you. Shuddup, boy. -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Another Way To Look At It My Dad, on the bizarre attack on Royals coach Tom Gamboa: I think the good news is that there are still some fans left out there who care... who really really really care!!

BOOOOO! Just as a surgeon is finishing up an operation, the patient wakes up, sits up, and demands to know what is going on. "I'm about to close," the surgeon says. The patient grabs his hand and says, "Oh, no you're not! I'll close my own incision." The doctor hands him the needle and says, "Suture self."

The Fishin' Hole

Tuesday, May 28, 2002 In my office, every day at approximately the same time, one of my co-workers starts whistling The Fishin' Hole, also known as The Andy Griffith Show Theme Song. This is a new development, and a bit strange. You see, a few years back, I met Barney Fife. Well...sorta. I met the man who is probably the most effective Barney Fife impersonator in the country. His name is David Browning, and he's as close to the "official" Barney Fife impersonator there is. Even Mr. Knotts approves... Browning came out to a Cracker Barrel Restaurant in Johnston County to help celebrate its opening. He was funny. Very effective as the bungling lawman. He had the car, the hat, the buggy eyes, the awkward stance...and yes, Virginia, he had the bullet in his pocket. It was a brilliant performance, brilliant enough to make my front page that week. (Sure, it was a slow newsweek. ALL of them were slow newsweeks in Johnston County.) And, frankly, brilliant enough for me to become a fan of the show and a novice trivia buff...(quick, why'd Fife decide he could put an "M.D." in front of his name?) Sometimes, I miss Raleigh so damned bad. I miss the incredibly lush quality that the foliage has there. I miss REAL barbecue. I miss being a stone's throw from Chapel Hill. Hell, I miss Fuquay-Varina, believe it or not. And I really miss it every time I say "hey" to a stranger in this particular metropolitan area just to be walked through like I'm a ghost. So much as open your mouth in some parts of Carolina, and you've just shot the next 45 minutes on friendly conversation. But I can't ever deny that my spiritual home is D.C. I began the process of adopting this place when I was 13 years old. Visits with Dad showed this generally medium-sized-college-town youngster what the metropolitan life could offer. There's no decent Thai food in Kent, no expansive art museums where you might actually see a Dali, no public transit. Of course, there's not much chance that an airplane will end up flying into Brady's Caf�. I guess a large part of life is picking your dangers. Proximity to the dastardly deeds of terrorists, or, um...boredom? Yep, I think I've pretty much made my pick. But, goddammit. I really wish they'd stop whistling that.

A bit for you today regarding how my mind works, as if you might find this topic fascinating... As I have slightly lamented in this particular column, I have recently moved from a Nice, Big, Windowed Office into a less nice, smaller, windowless office. As I have said, I must say again: I am pleased as hell to have an office at all, or, for that matter, to even have a job and the wits with which to perform it reasonably well. ::kicking dirt:: I still miss my damned window, though. Anyway. When I was in my bigger office, and after I inherited the additional responsibilities as Webmaster for my organization, I had to do some detective work, which meant I had to spend some time cleaning out the office belonging to the previous Webmaster. (I didn't ogle anything personal, bro'. Don't fuss.) Now, personally, I'm not sure how this lad ever got anything done. He was buried in paper. Piles of it, reams of it, acres of it, everywhere could find it, there was paper. I think he had the entire Webmonkey Cold Fusion tutorial printed out twice (it's several hundred pages long). So, I pitched about half of it, kept the receipts and some of the stuff that looked like it would contain vital information, and I dumped those papers onto an empty tabletop in my nice, roomy office. As I had time, I would sort through the mess of papers, pull out the 5 percent of what was worth keeping, and recycle the rest. Despite my best efforts, deadlines were my real priority, and I didn't mitigate but perhaps a third of the pile. Of course...in my new office, there's no tabletop. No room for one. So all that pile of stuff that I haven't gone through, it's on the floor in front of my desk. Oh, I could put this pile in the drawer of the filing credenza. There's enough room there, and it would remove this unsightly mess. If I do that, though, what will be my incentive to actually clean the mess up? If it's out of sight, it will be out of mind, and it will continue to be an unmanageable stack of obsolete paper. If I leave it where it is now, and I get enough "tsk tsk" noises clucked at me, I will have a grand incentive to actually send pounds and pounds of this useless paper packing. Do I think too hard?

Marketing Push Just Beginning For Rukeyser By Serge Colonblow (ABP)--Don't feel bad for Louis Rukeyser. As it turns out, when Rukeyser was told to step out on his long-running television show, "Wall Street Week With Louis Rukeyser," he stepped onto a veritable money truck. CNBC knew a good thing when they saw it--the cable network immediately snapped up the popular finance guru for a show of his own, on cable, with a few rules of its own. The show will not be commercially supported but will be underwritten, as was Rukeyser's PBS program. "I insisted on this," said Rukeyser. "These days many, if not most, of my viewers do have access to cable, but many do not. They h all of my viewers have access to cable, but many do not. They have been...extremely loyal to the program, and I wanted to make sure it was available to them." Rukeyser denied inside rumors that the show was originally to have been titled "Rukeyser's Bitchin' Budweiser Financial Hour"; nor would he acknowledge the rumor that producers had been negotiating with former "Happy Days" star Erin Moran to appear on the show, possibly actually wearing money. He was jubilant, however, about the Louis Rukeyser action figures. "Check this out!" said Rukeyser. "He's got a cape!" Expect also a Saturday morning cartoon series, merchandising tie-ins with Burger King, and a hot dog fryer bearing the Rukeyser name.

My senior year in college, I worked as in intern in Washington, D.C. No, not one of those kinds of internships. I spent two days a week at a little media group that tended to work with leftish non-profits, or not-for-profits, or whatever you call 'em. When I worked there, I formed one notion of what I wanted to achieve after college: A job in Washington, D.C., an office with a big window, and a reasonably comfortable life. I was essentially shooting for a job as a newsletter editor and a nice place to live in Northern Virginia. You know what? For awhile, I had all of that. Today, though, I lost the office. I now reside from nine to five in a smaller, danker office without a window. And...um...well, there's this STENCH... Yes, friends, life just keeps getting better and better. And better. ('Sokay, ya'll. I got my eyes on the prize. I'll get there someday.)

Have you ever gone to type the word "Superfund" and had it come out "Superfunk?" If so, did you find the whole thing as incredibly amusing as I am right now?

Come on, gentlemen. Who among us doesn't have to find a desktop during a playing of "Carouselambra" and beat Bonzo's part out at the bridge? RIGGA-DIGGA! RIGGA-DIGGA! (rest) BOOM! Zeppelin ROOLZ!

Jesus! Jesus! Pass it to me! I'm open! Speaking of Jesus...you may find some kitschy little items here and here. Happy Easter.

A mailing list I'm on recently mentioned the notion of priests abdicating their vows of celibacy in light of the most recent charges of child abuse in the Catholic church. I responded: I for one would hate to see the Catholic church do away with its celibacy rule. The simple fact of the matter is that the Catholic church needs dysfunction and foolishness to surive. For centuries, the Catholics made a career of finding fault with other peoples and cultures and working hard to assimilate, to purge, and to achieve political power, criticizing other religions as superstitious cults while grasping with white knuckles the notion that they were actually eating the flesh and blood of Jesus Christ, castigating polytheists while praying to Mary, Jesus, Joseph, and anybody but the Man herself, and widely spreading the completely unhealthy philisophical view that humans are essentially sinful creatures in constant need of redemption and forgiveness. Vatican II may have allowed services to be held in English, but it didn't reform the church's twisted and bizarrely firm stance on birth control, a stance which does nothing to reconcile itself with the church's even firmer stance on abortion, nor did it help to stop the church from lording over the rest of the world with an attitude toward human sexuality that is infantile and destructive. The douchebag sentiment at work here is the one that says that abstaining from fucking is a great way to become more effectively plugged in to the forming and nuturing forces of the universe. I have a suspicion that for centuries the creator has been giggling at them and wondering when they'd catch on to the fact that She put those tingly bits there for a reason, and that caging that energy is about as holy as kicking up your bare feet on a pew back during Easter service and letting a thundering fart rattle the wooden seat. One thing that hasn't come out of all of this yet: These latest events convince me that it's high time for some American religious institution to extend a forgiving hand to the Rev. Sinead O'Connor for creaming the Pope on Saturday Night Live some years ago. This is, after all, precisely what she was bellering about, and while her method of protest was bizarre at best, it turns out that she was absolutely right. Let's have a ceremony in New York City to affirm this woman's priesthood in the church and a marketing push to welcome her back into the fickle fold of the American music industry.

Last night, Fox Television aired a one-hour Bill Reilly diatribe called The Corruption of the American Child. I have a few thoughts. Does anyone else find it ironic that this television show aired on Fox, which is presently warping the minds of young adolescent men with a show about a man who has 15 women at once vying for his hand in marriage? (It doesn't work this way, boys. If you can find one wonderful woman to pursue you with such an intent, you're a damned fortunate man.) Does anyone else find it inappropriate that a show moralizing about the horrors of mass media provided hundreds of visual references to what O'Reilly considers to be the worst of it? Did anyone else cringe when Opie and Anthony appeared as guests?* Had O'Reilly wanted a real debate, he would have gotten the real McCoy. Generally, I disagree with O'Reilly's hypothesis. Violence isn't just rampant in our fictional media, it exists in our news media because it exists in our world. In these post 9/11 days, and in days when violence in Israel doesn't even take a holiday for Pesach, it seems naive to crusade against the Insane Clown Posse. And the problem is not the appearance of sex in the media, it is American unhealthy Puritanical attitudes toward human sexuality in general. The fact that we're supposed to avert our eyes contributes to the obsessive and sometimes destructive horniness of American culture. Besides, to chastise Hollywood like this is to do so in a vacuum—American mass media still produces a lot that is appropriate and healthy for children. I have to say, though, I loved having the opportunity to throw rotten tomatoes at the ACLU lawyer, who took the bizarre and extreme position that a national group is entitled by the First Amendment to espouse sex with children. Wow, when you're wrong, you're wrong. It was an interesting little show, but being a tiny cog in the machine of media, I will always cringe a little when the accusations come at us. It's easy to blame the media for our social ills and far more difficult to examine the social, governmental, and economic causes. It has always been thus and shall always be. *I am not a fan of Opie and Anthony. From what I know of these two, they have distilled only the most prurient aspects of the Howard Stern Radio Show for their own use. Casual listeners should not place Howard in the same class as these two morons.

Do you need an afdb?

Meanwhile, in the "Kids Say the Darndest Things" file: A conversation between my father and his six-year-old son, my little brother, about a recent trip to an art museum. Little Brother: Dad, the girls laughed at the sculptures. Dad: They did, Willie? Why did they do that? Little Brother: They just have no respect for art!

Top three things I'd like to ask Bobby Knight when he appears at Olsson's Books & Records in Arlington March 28: 3. What were you, born in a barn? 2. If you and Godzilla were in a fight, would you show him your own shit, or just throw a chair at him? 1. If you could throw a chair at any historical figure, who would it be?

Big Brother...3? There are two kinds of people in the world, those who divide people up into two groups, and those who do not. Having said that, there are two kinds of people in the world, people who watch Big Brother, and people who absolutely do not understand the perceived madness of those who do. I can see how those in that other crowd might believe it to be madness. I myself will admit to only a few of my Big Brother-related behaviors. I join show-related listserv groups. I search the Internet for updates. And yes, I have actually spent money to vote in the polls. But no, I have never jumped up around screaming to cheer on so-and-so during a head of household competition. My point in bringing up Big Brother at this juncture: Big Brother is looking for houseguests for BB3. While I am utterly elated that we will have another season, I do have a note of concern for the producers of this fine television program. As we all know, MTV started the "reality television" boom with The Real World. When the show first aired, producers managed to populate its real world with real people, folks like you and me...well, with the exception of Puck. The new crews, however, have simply been pretty people, people who really aren't very interesting. I'm hoping CBS won't make the same mistake. They improved production values dramatically in the second season, reducing Julie Chen's role to focus more on the houseguests, making competitions less grueling and more fun (save except for the final HOH competition, which encouraged the three remaining houseguests to wet the bed), and placing voting powers within the house, not across the nation. I would hate to see the show turn into a place where the Kents and the Chicken Georges of the world wouldn't stand a chance. Thank you.

How to make a perfect chili dinner for yourself and two friends who have come over to watch the Kansas game but spend most of the evening watching the goddamn Maryland game because the morons at network would rather broadcast the rather lackluster Maryland game in your area: First, spend four hours shopping for a Crock Pot, unless you have an appropriate one on hand. Go to Hecht's first, and ask the saleslady to go in the back and look of a 3.5-quart Crock Pot. She will return after ten minutes and tell you that they don't have any in stock. Get in your car, pay $1 for parking, and drive to Target on Jefferson Davis Highway. Find the location where they have every model of Crock-Pot except for the one you want, then find a salesperson who will go to the back, and explain to you that they don't have any left in the back, either. Go to Linens and Things and Best Buy next to CostCo and have a similar experience. Finally, drive to Macy's and find a three-quart Farberware crock. Thank goodness. Now, here're the groceries you need: Two cans each of pinto beans, mixed vegetables, chopped tomatoes. One twelve pack of Sam Adams Spring Ale. One six-pack each of Coke and Diet Coke, which nobody will consume. One package of chili seasoning, maybe two if you're feeling dangerous. Grated cheese. One bag of Fritos. Three boxes of Jiffy cornbread mix. Eggs. Milk. A red pepper. Sliced banana peppers. A pound o' meat (optional). Scallions. Mushrooms. Spring squash. Salt. Pepper. Chili powder. Drinks some beer. Brown the meat. Slice the veggies. Drink some more beer. Throw the whole mess together and stir it really really well. Make cornbread. Crock it. Eat. And don't be neat about it. Top it with cheese. Throw the cornbread into the mess. Drink some more beer. Throw the Fritos in, too. Damn. And oh, yeah. Go Kent. They play Indiana tonight at 7.

Kent State is going to the Eight. ::lip doodle::

I hate to admit it, but I am giggling with glee watching Todd Bridges kick Rob Van Winkle's ass.

I know that readers' eyes glaze over when I talk tech. So, I apologize for the past few days' immersion in the subject. I did lose comments for awhile because Blogger is, unfortunately, not the most reliable service in the world, though it is wonderful. I believe I have reached a solution: I no longer publish directly to my index page. This leaves my blog page unaffected should Blogger decide to screw something up. Then, I can copy and paste and edit entries to my heart's content, and republish via FTP. It adds a step, but it ensures that I can keep the page's quality up. Incidentally, I know I lost a post. I will see if I can retrieve it at home. Anyway, I might as well take a moment to note that as of today, the Whitewater issue is finally closed. And yep, that DNA stain is all that ever came of it. I swear, this city is such a shitpile. The homeless cats lady was back at Ballston yesterday. She sets up a table there from time to time with a big sign that says "HOMELESS CATS." I still want to ask her how much she wants for them.

When my cousin Christopher was 6, he and his family were traveling on a bus in some metropolitan area, Chicago, I think it was. Christopher, in his childlike persistence and enthusiasm for pushing buttons and making noise and such, was insistent that he should get to "ring the dingy." "I get to ring the dingy, right?" he asked my Uncle Jim. "Yes, Christopher, you can ring the dingy," Jim would reply. Then, of course, after a few moments..."But Jim, I get to ring the dingy, right?" The time drew near for Christopher and fam to exit the bus, and, as the story goes, Uncle Jim got a little excited. "Come on Christopher! Ring the dingy! Ring the dingy!" It's an odd little etiquette we have on buses, isn't it? I watched this morning as a young woman sitting in the front seat of my bus rang the dingy, though she could have just as easily leaned over and said, excuse me, ma'am, but I will need to get off at this stop. I thought of this odd transport of communication, that instead of going from person to person, this idea is transferred via telegraph regardless of one's situation on the bus. I mean, immediately afterward, the woman said "thank you and have a nice day" to our driver, it wasn't as if direct communication between these two human beings was irreperably impaired by some universal happenstace. We are a society that is used to prosthetic media. We have telephones and Internet and television and yes, we have the dingy. Social circumstance and national mindset mean that, given a choice between interacting directly or poking someone with a stick, well, we'll pick up the stick every time. That's just the way it's done, I guess. When you're on the bus, you ring the dingy.

I was in Safeway today, the one in Arlington across the street from the new Harris Teeter that will put it out of business in 4.5 months (trust me), and this guy came over the loudspeaker and said: "Will the owner of the Toyota please move it? Put it in a PARKING SPACE WHERE IT BELONGS!" I hope that guy gets a raise.

Tipper Gore has announced that she is considering a run for Senate. In a related story, Al Gore has announced that both of his testicles have turned black, shriveled, and fallen off completely.

Show me the way to the next sushi bar. Oh, don't ask why. Oh, don't ask why. I tried sushimi while in Vegas. I didn't order it directly, I tried somebody else's. Not to be unsophisticated or anything, but blech! I also tried sake. Also, blech. I'm home now, and ever so happy to be here. I got in at 1:30 a.m. Stayed up 'til like 3. Woke up and had breakfast with Uncle Johnny. Glad to be home. I missed the feta cheese and spinach and tomato omlette at Metro 29. I missed Alice the Cat (I've renamed her "Alice." Don't ask.) I missed having my own computer. I missed not having to wear a tie every day. Now that I'm home, I can start telling everyone to read Michael Moore's Stupid White Men. Every American should read this fabulous book. Yes, that means you. And now, to go recover from Vegas.

Friends, you haven't lived until you've had the opportunity to eat something called "fried goat cheese cakes." This is, I think, perhaps, the world's most perfect food. After all, it has goat cheese, and it's fried. Other unsolicited opinions from Gomorrah West: The world needs more men like James Carville, Tom Tomorrow, and, most of all, Bill Bradley. I know, I know. The man has a turkey neck and two first names. I saw him speak this morning, however, and I'm telling you, he is one of the clearest thinkers this nation has to offer today. His prescription for America: "...a pluralistic democracy and a growing economy that takes more and more people to higher ground." I told him so, too, as I got my picture snapped with him after his speech. "I think we need you in 2004, Mr. Bradley," said I. The giant man standing next to me didn't respond. I think he had jetlag, and my bet is that the little blue dot from the flash was still hovering for him.

The Bellagio has perfected elevator muzik. When you step onto the elevator, there is no music playing. Then, once the elevator car begins its descent, music starts to play. It is always a different genre; sometimes it plays show tunes, sometime Sinatra, sometimes Baroque. It's little details like this that makes a week's stay at this place interesting and pleasant. From my room, I can see the fountain waters dance. The water streams, I've heard, are directed by little explosions at the pool bottom. You can turn on the television in your room to a particular channel and listen to music the water dance is coordinated to. I actually stood at my window a few nights ago and watched the waters dance to Celine Dion's "My Heart Will Go On." And it was actually pretty cool. Our convention has been successful. My program with the author G.D. Gearino went over very well. I'm going to write Dan a big thank you note when I get home. "Dear Dan," it will read, "thank you for making me look good." I'm ready to go home now. Unfortunately, the convention schedule disagrees with me. I have one more day.

I'm going to write a book for children about how to behave in airports. Here is a brief excerpt: "See the pretty dog. See the pretty dog sniffing the suitcases. Pet the pretty doggie. Good doggie."

For the record, I made it to Vegas. No terrorist attacks, no major shakedowns by overzealous security staff...I suffered nothing but boredom and fidgeting on a 5-hour (BEVERAGE ONLY) flight. The time difference is difficult to account for right now. I have already tried to attend a staff meeting two hours early.

Is it just me, or does John Basedow look like a chicken?

Today, I'm packing. Well, that's the plan. I'm getting somewhat psyched about convention. It's going to be different from previous years because I'll be wearing a lot of hats. I'll be busy, you bet. It will be strange not traveling under a full moon. When I was traveling more frequently, I could always seem to count on a full moon to watch over me. I've seen her full and strong over the Alamo and in the middle of Vegas. I'll miss her, though I don't know if I'll have much time to notice her. I'm nervous about the trip. Nervous I won't be able to drag my ass out of bed on time, nervous about flying, nervous about the whole security rigamarole, nervous about convention. I'm psyched, though. Looking forward to it. Off to pack.

In today's Washington Post, there is a story about one of the officers involved in the attack on Hatian immigrant Abner Louima being released on $1 million bond. Louima, you'll remember, was treated by New York's finest to an asstickle with a broom handle. This is an actual paragraph from this story. I am not making this up. "Louima eventually received an $8.75 million settlement from the city of New York and the police union, and moved last year to the Miami area with his wife and three children—in part, he said, to try to put his painful past behind him."

Meanwhile, in the "all our base are belong to us" file...(click this!)

When you decide to make changes to your blog, you can make some hellish mistakes. I decided today that I want to keep my domain name next year. I like owning my own domain name, and to me, it's worth the money. So I decided to put some redirect script onto the blogspot page. In the process, I messed up the template. I will, I hope, have it back the way it was before, better, stronger, faster...You may change your bookmarks, if you like. Sorry about all the confusion. My e-mail will continue to cruise over to AOL, though I have forwarded bjp.com mail.

Brit Hume says that Disney, who owns ABC, must be smarting at being portrayed in the press as "a profit-hungry, greedy corporation uninterested in bringing the news to America." Well, Brit (is Droopy your dad, by the way?), if it walks like a profit-hungry, greedy corporation uninterested in bringing the news to America, and if it quacks like a profit-hungry, greedy corporation uninterested in bringing the news to America...well... It's nice to some extent to know that the bullshit doesn't stop when you're in the highest levels of the profession, that the capitalists will always dick around with the news staff no matter where you are, and that the foolish dynamic doesn't change at different levels of professionalism in the media. Even at ABC news, it seems, management just isn't happy until it runs in and goes mad with a thresher. By its very nature, news is a liability. News staff is not there to help sell advertising. News staff will require a budget and will sop up your resources and will never on its own generate a dime for you. The concept of news as a profit center is a new idea. Television networks initially established news departments because radio had them, and radio had them at the behest of the FCC, which once upon a time as a useful governmental entity held a crazy notion that the public airwaves belonged to the public and had an obligation to serve said public. "Nightline" was born from that idea in an urgent time. Iran had our people, and Ted Koppel kept us apprised of the progress at 11:30 p.m. every night. There was no CNN and no Internet. There was only Ted. It was a noble experiment, one that stuck and one that has brought some of the most compelling news stories over the years. Every weekday evening, a serious and respected newsman sits down to tell a story, and a news format developed and perfected in that time slot delivers news with a depth that Stone Phillips and the gang can't touch. It doesn't surprise me that ABC and Disney brass can be so cavalier with Koppel, who deserves a far fairer shake than all of this. Stuffed-shirt capitalist pinheads like this cannot grasp the value of a good news staff and can't grasp the value of anything that doesn't have a bottom line. "Nightline" is still doing its job, and people still need "Nightline." Demographics be darned to heck.

Pet peeve #7,642: Just because that door has a button to push to make it open automatically doesn't mean that you should push that button and make the door open automatically. Do you see the little icon underneath it? That button is for folks who can't open that door on their own. "Disabled" people, as it were. Here's the thing about machines: The more they're used, the more maintenance they require and the more likely they are to BREAK. Therefore, the more pedestrians use that button, the more likely it is not to be available for somebody who might actually NEED it. So take your little arm and grab the little handle and PULL.

My last two entries ended with questions. Is that okay?

I am Lloyd Dobler. I am the keymaster. And I want to be President of the United States of America. Can you dig it?

Note to self: Don't forget to watch "The Osbornes" tonight on MTV at 10. Thank you. Note to YOU. Amy Fisher isn't boxing Tonya now. Paula Jones is. Won't that be a little more interesting?