Kal’s Gift Shop

“Now is the time for all good men to come to the aid of their country.”

2010-12-21T17:04:00.008-06:00

So, apparently, former Regan administration hack/RNC Chair and current Mississippi Gov. Haley Barbour is thinking of running for president in 2012.

First of all, who isn’t thinking of running for president as a Republican in 2012. But secondly, two years out, I think it’s silly to keep trying to figure out who the “front runner” is. Newt Gingrich will never be president, in my opinion. I highly doubt he’ll even run. Who knows what Sarah Palin will do. She doesn't even seem to know what she's gonna do next.

So, having said all that, I get annoyed when people try to call presidential races when we haven't even started having primaries.

This item from the Slate War Room, for example.

How does the Slate News Editor know that Republicans won’t love the fact Barbour is a barely-concealed bigot? Bigotry plays well in Republican circles, particularly in the South.

Newt Gingrich will never be president.

To say in 2010, Oh, the Republican primary voters won't give Barbour a second look, is being arrogant in my opinion.

And I say that, you know, having just declared Newt Gingrich will never be president.

I know “these people” (note my air quotes) make a good living telling us who is up and who is down and who is moving into 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue in 2016, but they’re really all full of shit.

John McCain was roadkill in December 2007. In February 2008, he was already the presumptive Republican nominee.

So, that’s my “blog entry” for the moment. Thank you for reading.

By the way, the pic of Gov. Barbour that accompanies the Slate story makes him look like a fat (OK, even fatter) William Shatner.

How about I make this prognostication: The American people will never elect a grossly fat man as their president!

That’s why I think Gov. Christie has no chance. He looks very unattractive. And as we well know, TV adds 50 pounds. Guess Jon Corzine thought of it first.

SEE, I told you I’m right: If Chris Matthews says it, then it has to be true!

I’m here all week, folks.

“Where have you been?”

2008-07-21T23:45:00.003-05:00

I kinda just stopped wanting to broadcast everything I was thinking.

There’s this explicit conceit to blogging that whatever the hell is on your mind is worth making available to the Wonderful Wide Web.

I needed to just shut up for a while.

I have a new job in politics. I like being less dramatic. I’m housesitting for the friend of a friend in a cute little suburban bungalow. I have a checking account, which is really quite amazing. I don’t drink and smoke anymore, which is also quite amazing. Things have really changed. You should see me these days.

I’d like to be as hard-hitting and informative as ever, but frankly, that takes a lot of work. These links don’t type themselves.

I’m going to be disjointed and less lucid, which happens when you become as old as I am. But then I’m not so obsessed with my own perfection anymore, which also sometimes happens when you become as old I am.

We’ll just have to see what happens from now on. I can tell … you’re just tingling with anticipation.

“Here it comes”

2006-10-19T00:40:00.000-05:00

I sit here typing on the laptop as my Windows Media Player 11 (Beta 2!) plays the Pussycat Dolls’ “Buttons,” which frankly, became my summer anthem. Right up there with Kellis’ “Bossy.” These are the sort of songs we played at full blast and danced to in the Honorable’s office.

My fun with mp3s reminds me of the flight I took last year to California to attend my best friend’s wedding. I was nestled in between two friendly people in the middle seat, because I had arrived at the Southwest counter seconds before the pilot pushed off from the gate.

As the flight progressed across the country, I noticed my seatmate with the window view had one of those Apple iPod thingys. I suddenly felt conversational.

“You know,” I said as I leaned over ever so slightly, “all my friends are buying those, and I wonder: Should I get one, too? Is it worth it?”

My new friend looked back at me and said in all sincerity, without pause for an ironic grin, “It will change your life.” Well, damn. Sign me up.

I mean. That’s what I thought, but I didn’t want to seem easy. “Wow,” I replied.

I already knew the convenience and wonder of this 20th century device - the electronic compression of nearly-perfect stereo sound - but had never personalized it. Not until just earlier that year when I started ripping my CD collection to my computer and listening to my own brand of music at work. No more pre-packaged AOL-brand “Easy Listening” Internet radio for me anymore. Now I could rock out to Sheena Easton and Enrique Inglesias whenever I wanted.

It began hitting me more and more, as I rode the rails and buses to and from work that there were these thin, good-looking prosperous people intently staring off into space with little white bud things in thier ears. I soon understood the association of these people with iPods. “Look at me, look at me, la, la, la, la, la, la!” their earbuds told me joyfully. “I am listening to music in its latest, most hippest form!” This person is clearly more deserving than you, the ear buds seemed to also say.

“DUDE, TRUST ME ... THERE AREN’T 4,720 GOOD SONGS OUT
THERE.”

I admit. I had class envy. But those things are expensive, like, 300 dollars or something for the good one. I think. I hear. Okay, I don’t know, but 300 DOLLARS is mighty big money to me.

And if I have revealed my annual salary to you in that paragraph, I apologize.

So, one day - one fine day - I will sprout my own white earbuds and groove to the beat of my own digital drummer. Day-old stubble, square-toe Italian shoes, Banana Republic-tie, optional. Of course.

There’s this cartoon in my apartment on the ’fridge. No seriously, I’m not just winding up the story. It’s been here since before I moved in, which means it has had a life span of between, oh, 10 years and at least 8 months.

Let me describe it to you:

Headline - ANNOYING HUMAN BEHAVIOR #3: BRAGGING ABOUT HOW MANY MP3S YOU HAVE ON YOUR HARD DRIVE/IPOD.

Scene - Two hip, young Lincoln Park-looking fellas at a bar. One is looking down at his iPod, while the other stares off in impatience.

Impatient one: DUDE, TRUST ME ... THERE AREN’T 4,720 GOOD SONGS OUT THERE.

I’ll be getting one of those life-changing event things sooner than I’m ready for it. Damn, I hate to say it, but here it comes. 1,000 songs at my fingertips. Thank you, Steven Jobs, may I have another?

“A rat’s ass & a snowball’s chance on an ice rink”

2005-06-29T06:25:00.000-05:00

Last week I read in a Chicago paper a story in the sports section with this hed: “Hawks to name Tallon new GM.” I’ll have to fill you in on a rap sheet of backstory to have the outside chance you might begin to care about what comes next. Or to find it the least bit amusing.

You might not be aware of it as, actually, most of North America is not, but the National Hockey League is currently experiencing a lockout. A “lockout” is a situation wherein filthy, decadently rich owners clutching for that one additional dime to add to their billions, refuse to let their employees work in their factories / ballparks / ice arenas.

The NHL owners and players rocketed down this path toward mutually assured self-destruction when both sides could not see eye-to-eye about capping player salaries. It got to the point of both sides refusing to agree that sometimes, yes, taking a bath while wielding an electric hair curler might lead to no good.

The lockout began just before the start of the 2004-2005 season, as the 30 team owners, who claim they are hemorrhaging money, and the players, who feel disrespected by not consuming 90 percent of league revenues through salaries, held hands and nonchalantly jumped over a cliff together. Reportedly they sang “Oh, Canada” on the way down. Hockey hasn’t been seen nor heard from ever since.

Okay, we’ve heard about pro hockey, in the same sense you hear about how your Cousin Eddie was in Bail Court a few months ago, I think it was, on some kind of grand theft auto charge, I can’t remember all too well. I mean, I heard about it when I was in the Jewel from a guy he used to work with. Anyway, he’s not doing so good, from what I gather, ya know? What’s that? No, I’m probably not gonna go visit him in the can.

That’s exactly how things have been for professional hockey. It’s off cooling its skates somewhere while the rest of us get on with shopping at the Jewel and whatnot.

The NHL has long been referred to as one of the “Big Four,” those North American sports organizations known so widely across the world, most people can immediately tell who and what you’re talking about when you bring up the acronyms NFL, NBA and MLB.

The problem with this designation is that, in reality, NHL is less popular in terms of TV ratings and cultural awareness than NASCAR, Arena Football, women’s basketball and your average American Legion Summer Baseball league. It has been this way for some time.

Professional hockey had the ignominious distinction of losing its broadcasting contract when ABC refused to re-up in 2004 after some sorry numbers for both regular season games and the playoffs. The Mouse paid more than $600 million for a 5-year ABC / ESPN combo deal, then saw ratings drop 21 percent during the regular games since the 2001-2002 season, and witnessed a similar plunge for the Stanley Cup Finals.

The networks decided putting hockey even on ESPN20 at 4 a.m. was so not worth it, they’d make better scratch leasing the time to George Foreman infomercials.

So, supposing there was hockey going on, the NHL probably wouldn’t be making much money off of having it televised. They went from getting $120 million a year from the networks, to not receiving a single upfront dime in their new contract with its new home, NBC. Until NBC sells enough advertising time to make the enterprise worth it for network itself, forget the league.

The NHL had plummeted to the level of Arena Football (a sport linked to NBC with a similar broadcasting contract) and then decided THAT EXACT moment in sports history would be the perfect time to conduct an acrimonious labor dispute. No pro sports league had lost an entire season to worker unrest before the NHL went ahead and did it. All have lost big chunks, though, the NFL and MLB most famously coming to mind.

But those two are in an entirely different ballpark when you look at bottom-line financials and worldwide visibility. Pro football is basking in a series of contracts ending this year that totaled $18 billion. And literally billions wait to see its championship every year.

Major League Baseball rakes in $417 million a year from Fox. The network, which puts its regular schedule on hold every fall to accommodate the baseball playoffs, just profited from America’s renewed love with its pastime. And the fact the Red Sox just would not die.

Last year’s World Series, featuring the St. Louis Cardinals and the Boston Red Sox, finished up with the highest ratings in five years. The average audience of 25.4 million fans made it the most-watched Fall Classic of the last nine years.

Hockey’s demise, on the other hand, is lamented most intensely by our Canadian friends, who suddenly found themselves having plenty time last winter to sit in the family room playing Scrabble.

The 32,805,041 million Canucks and you, who have gotten to this point of this treatise on hockey, are the only people with the NHL on their minds at THIS EXACT moment. So I guess I better hurry up with the punchline before I lose you to that crocheting you have been meaning to get back to for a while.

The story in the paper announced the departure of Bob Pulford as general manager of the Chicago Blackhawks (our city’s hockey team in case you’ve forgotten). Taking up his responsibilities of shaking down a franchise for the sole benefit of owner Bill Wirtz, is Dale Tallon.

I found myself thinking, What a quaintly irrelevant news bit. The Hawks hadn’t played a game in 15 months and hadn’t been to the playoffs since 2002. There were too few people in town who cared anymore about pro hockey enough to make the squandering of ink and newsprint worthwhile.

It was akin to the King of Italy announcing he had designated Crown Prince Emmanuele Filiberto as his heir. A) The Kingdom of Italy vanished 59 years ago, and B) who is this guy claiming to be the Italian ruler? [I am so, so tempted to try and work in a reference to Berlusconi, but there are too few people in town who care anymore about the column enough to … you know the rest.]

Bill Wirtz hates his fans just as much as they hate him back, if not more. What knucklehead flatly refuses to put on home games on any sort of broadcast or cable station, thinking it’s like giving tickets away to the show?

The kind of guy who is a multi-millionaire multi times over and still thinks removing every last available nickel from the hockey-loving public is a sound and honored principle of capitalism. I have no love for the Blackhawks. However, I do wish Tallon the best of luck running a team that once hired a guy named Alpo Suhonen to coach for a season.

Alright, that was a cheap shot. You gotta give Suhonen a break for his first name – he’s Finnish. Plus, working for one of the worst organizations in hockey gave the guy a heart condition that ran him out of town faster than a city employee can take a bribe.

So, the Hawks have a new GM. Yawn. Yet another guy brought in to finish off the job of running the team into the permafrost. Much like hockey is doing to itself.

Ah, but dare to hope, Canucks. Apparently the owners and the players, having pushed the launch button and experiencing a nuclear winter, will come back to us soon with the happy announcement, “Hey, remember us?” It took baseball many years and several steroid-induced, homerun-stuffed seasons to recover from its strike in 1994-1995. You’ve got to wonder what sort of circus the NHL will put on the ice in an effort to win back friends and influence people to come around again.

Pro wrestling already has the market cornered on stage-managed fights in big venues. Good luck with that recovery plan, fellas.

“Ask me a stupid question”

2004-10-14T03:03:00.000-05:00

I received this e-mail today:

1) What issue(s) are most important to you in this year's elections?

2) What is MORE important to you; sticking with a particular party or voting for the candidate who best represents the issues most important to you?

I responded this way:

1. In all honesty, defeating Geo. W. Bush.

Secondarily, better jobs and a better economy. I make less today than I did four years ago, just as millions of Americans do. The ones that have jobs, that is. I'll tell you one of the LEAST important issues to me: "security." This may sound naive, but nobody is going to drive a plane straight into the Chicago suburb where I live or the other one where I work. It's also highly unlikely anyone will do anything to anybody who doesn't live in New York, Washington and maybe, MAYBE Los Angeles. All those fucking "security moms" who live in the middle of Bufoo Missouri (or Pennsylvania or Wisconsin) are stupid, BEYOND stupid because terrorists have no clue where Jefferson City is. Even more importantly, if you want to make a statement about American capitalists pigs and their infidelic lifestyle, killing people in Milwaukee isn't going to mean shit to the rest of the world - and that includes people who live in Illinois spitting distance from the border. The only way terrorism affects my life - if, for example, a dirty bomb goes off in Times Square - is the resulting recession such an event would cause. But I'm a state government employee anyway, so it's not as if I'm going to loose my job. Apologies to those who live in N.Y. D.C or L.A. but no one is forcing you to stay exactly where there's a bull's eye painted directly on your ass.

2. Party. Period. No Republican, no matter how warm and fuzzy, "compassionate" (remember that shit?) intelligent or moderate can represent me as well as the very worst Democrat. Here's what it comes down to: In the legislature, my Democrat will vote for a fellow Democrat to be Speaker of the House or Senate President (Majority Leader in the federal version). Even if a Republican is warm, fuzzy, smart, folksy, moderate - oh, don't let me forget "compassionate" - he/she will still vote for another Republican to run his respective legislative chamber. That leader will, in turn, kiss the ass of the NRA, the Christian Right, Businesses Who Pollute the Environment, the 1 percent of Americans who make more than $200,000 and any other minion of Satan who claims to believe in "family values" but thinks gay people should not have legal recognition for their families. You can say, "Well YOUR friggin' Democrat will pucker the butt cheeks of Welfare Queens, Blacks, Trial Lawyers, fags, abortionists and Kofi Annan, who flies around in a black helicopter trying to steal my AK-47!" Yes, of course.

I wouldn't have it any other way.

A Democrat, by definition, best represents the issues important to me. I have only voted for one Republican in my 16 years of being eligible (Jim Edgar for Illinois governor his first race), and that was more than a decade ago. I do not plan on making that kind of mistake ever again.

Kerry for president, Obama for senate, Tom Dashcle for majority leader, Nancy Pelosi for speaker. By the way, in case you have forgotten, the third branch of government is at stake this election. William Rehnquist isn't going to live forever.

“True democracy: Boxers or briefs?”

2004-07-28T14:14:00.000-05:00

I was recently asked my opinion - simultaneously - on two topics which at first glance, had nothing to do with each other. After careful consideration of both, they still do not.

#1 Boxers or briefs?

#2 Why do you feel there is such high voter apathy i.e. people don’t vote? Do you believe more people would vote if the national election day was changed to a weekend or made a national holiday?

Because your Mommy still combs your hair and buys your underwear, it’s acceptable for BOYS to wear tighty whiteys. When one reaches young adulthood, however, all sane MEN should switch to boxers. A) They’re more attractive, comfortable and come in a variety of colorful prints at The Gap. B) If a situation arises that forces a man to be in public without trousers, you better believe having boxers on makes for a much less embarrassing situation. Unless you’re proud below the navel, if you know what I mean.

“The great thing about democracy is that it gives every voter a chance to do something stupid.”

– Oakland Tribune journalist Art Spander

Ain't dat the troof. Anyway, I did my research and found that in the last 44 years, the highest voter turn out was 63.1 percent. That was the 1960 election between Kennedy and Nixon. Not coincidentally, it is also the closest election ever, vote-wise. Kennedy won by only 110,000 or so votes. (Compared to the 543,826 separating Gore from Bush).

The lowest voter turnout was the 1996 election (Clinton vs. Dole), when only 49 percent of voters bothered to get out for their civic duty. It is the only time in the last 44 years when turnout fell below 50 percent, though a sparse 50.2 percent were in booths for the Bush I vs. Dukakis election of 1988.

I think it’s important to point out, however, that in elections since 1892, the total number of votes cast for president went up each cycle, except for 1904, 1944, 1988 and 1996. [Yes, yes, the population has gone up, too.] Even though 54.5 percent of voters came out in 2000, more than 105 million votes were cast for prez, the most ever. And that percentage was the highest in 28 years, beating out only 1992’s 55.2 percent.

Apparently holding an election on Tuesday is not very popular. Most countries that have one-day votes do it on a Sunday, with Saturday and Monday coming in behind that. Would having an election over two days on a weekend boost participation? Maybe. Probably far more helpful is instituting same-day registration, which only 6 states allow. Turnout in Idaho, Maine, Minnesota, New Hampshire, Wisconsin and Wyoming in 2000 averaged a little more than 68 percent, beating the national average significantly. This is something (among other progressive measures) Dan Johnson-Weinberger wants desperately for all Americans and actually went to Springfield to try and get a version of it done in Illinois.

I think the major reason voters don’t do the deed is because they see no reason to. Either politics turns them off, they feel as if voting makes no difference, or they’re relatively satisfied with the country. After all, whoever is president has no bearing on how good the writing is on All My Children or the price of Adidas soccer shoes on Ebay .

Personally, I vote because I strongly believe Democrats want to save the world and Republicans want to destroy it. No way am I gonna sit on my natural black ass and let them get away with that.

“Wanna go?”

2004-06-10T01:38:00.000-05:00

First person to e-mail me gets an invite to join Google’s Gmail wit me ...

Writetokal@gmail.com

I'll ask you to tell me a little bit about yourself: “Should Ronald Reagan's image appear on any U.S. currency?” Discuss.

“A critical look at Reagan’s legacy”

2004-06-08T15:13:00.000-05:00

Commentary that isn’t the least bit sycophantic ...

By Mark Weisbrot
Published June 8, 2004 in the Chicago Tribune

Ronald Reagan was a man who fought for what he believed in, and he changed the world more than probably any American in the 20th Century. He changed not only the conservative movement, the GOP, his country and the world - but also his opponents, known as liberals. As a result of his achievements, the typical liberal member of Congress today sits to the right of President Richard Nixon on a number of economic issues, including tax policy.

“The Great Communicator,” as he was called, was capable of charming millions of Americans with his soothing, grandfatherly demeanor. In 1984 there were polls indicating that most of those who voted to re-elect him disagreed with him on the issues. In short, the “Reagan revolution” would probably never have happened without his unrivaled leadership skills.

His death has unleashed a torrent of commentary on the significance of this revolution, and so it is important to set the record straight. His economic policies were mostly a failure. Partly, this was because he had promised something arithmetically impossible: to increase military spending, cut taxes and balance the budget. He kept the first two promises, delivering the largest peacetime military buildup in American history and cutting taxes massively, mostly for upper-income households.

But budget deficits soared to record heights. The national debt doubled, as a percentage of the economy, before Reagan’s successors were able to bring it under control. This “military Keynesianism” did pull the economy out of the 1982 recession, but the 1980s still chalked up the slowest growth of any decade in the post-World War II era. And income was redistributed to the wealthy as never before: During the 1980s, most of the country’s income gains went to the top 1 or 2 percent of households.

Reagan also helped redistribute American income and wealth with a bold assault on American labor. In 1981 he summarily fired 12,000 air-traffic controllers who had gone on strike for better working conditions.

This ushered in a new and dark era of labor relations, with employers now free to “permanently replace” striking workers. The median real wage failed to grow during the decade of the 1980s.

The Reagan revolution caused even more economic damage internationally, for example by changing policy at the International Monetary Fund and World Bank. Thus began the era of “structural adjustment” – a set of economic policies that has become so discredited worldwide that the IMF and World Bank no longer use the term. The 1980s became “the lost decade” for Latin America, the region most affected by Washington’s foreign economic policy. Income per person actually shrank for the decade, a rare historical event, and the region has yet to come close to its pre-1980s growth rates.

Reagan is often credited with having caused the collapse of the Soviet Union, but this is doubtful. He did use the Cold War as a pretext for other interventions, including funding and support for horrific violence against the civilian population of Central America. In 1999 the United Nations determined that the massacres of tens of thousands of Guatemalans constituted “genocide.” These massacres - often involving grotesque torture - reached their peak under the rule of Reagan’s ally, the Guatemalan Gen. Rios Montt.

Tens of thousands of Salvadorans were also murdered during Reagan’s presidency by death squads affiliated with the U.S.-funded Salvadoran military.

But it was Reagan’s efforts to overthrow the government - democratically elected in 1984 - of underdeveloped Nicaragua that almost brought down his presidency. Congress cut off aid to Reagan’s proxy army, the contras, as a result of pressure from Americans who were disgusted by the contras’ tactics of murdering unarmed teachers and health-care workers.

The Reagan administration continued to run the war from the basement of the White House and paid for part of it with the proceeds of illegal arms sales to Iran. Hence the Iran-contra affair, in which Reagan escaped prosecution because his subordinates claimed that he had no knowledge of their crimes.

The Reagan revolution continues today: The “war on terror” has replaced the Cold War as pretext for intervention abroad, including the disastrous war in Iraq. Tax cuts for the rich and huge increases in military spending have revived the era of giant budget deficits. As The Great Communicator used to say, “There they go again.”

Mark Weisbrot is co-director of the Center for Economic and Policy Research in Washington.

“[sic]”

2004-06-07T23:27:00.000-05:00

Well, it was good knowing you guys, but I've got to push the button. Up until now, the two of you were to only ones I knew sympathetic to my plight, but I'm moving on. As Stephen King says in “Stand By Me,” friends come in and out of your life like bus boys at a restaurant. Best of luck ...

With the farewell of “sionara,” a friend of mine - I guess now a former best friend - gave me the kiss off today. Via e-mail. Yeah, ouch. The plural “guys” refers to another mutual friend who, as of this deadline, has not pushed the button on me.

I'm trying to decide how I respond to being dumped by someone I considered very close to me. Bewilderment? Anger? Disappointment?

“A bad idea, half-baked”

2004-05-20T22:32:00.000-05:00

It’s not that jocks have an exclusive patent on ill-advised courses of action – Bill Clinton got impeached for his foolishness. We just tend to focus more heavily on their mistakes. Or derive more pleasure from hearing about them.

Mike Danton née Jefferson, a 5-foot-9, 191-pound center who played for the St. Louis Blues (we’ll come to my use of the past tense later) got himself in a jam last month. Okay, I’m selling the pile of shit Danton’s sitting in short.

The FBI collared the player April 16 in California, right before he was to climb on a plane with his teammates for St. Louis. How Danton fell from hockey and straight into federal custody is a long, strange trip.

To Reader’s Digest it for you, the government alleges Danton told Katie Wolfmeyer, 19, that a hitman from Canada was coming to St. Louis to kill him. He asked the young woman if she knew someone who could carry out a preemptive strike – a hitman to kill the hitman. Wolfmeyer sought out a man referred to by the government as a “cooperating witness.” This person informed the FBI of the unfolding scheme.

The agency responded by encouraging the Replacement Killer to act as if he were going to do the deed. G-men on the case monitored various phone calls placed between Danton in California, Wolfmeyer in Missouri and the hitman’s hitman in Illinois. Based on the recorded phone conversations, the FBI charged Danton and Wolfmeyer as would-be murderers.

Why did Danton think a 19-year-old woman would be an effective go-to-gal in the murder-for-hire business? At what point did Danton decide killing his way out of a problem was a reasonable notion? And was there no one in Danton’s life he could turn to and express the depths of his desperation; to hear of his plans and say, “Mike, you know, that is a terrible, terrible idea.”?

“Well, at the time … ”

The answer to the latter question is easy: No. Apparently, Danton had no one around him with a cool head. He’s been characterized as a loner estranged from his family for years. Danton ditched his original surname, Jefferson, as a way to make a final break from his parents - especially his father, Steve.

Long ago the elder Jefferson entrusted the health, education and hockey welfare of his son to coach / mentor / agent / reputed mind-controlling Svenghali David Frost. Mike was all of 11 years old at the time.

There are competing accounts of what happened to Danton while in Frost’s care. One comes from Frost himself. The other, from everyone else in the universe. Let’s say independent thinking does not clock in as Danton’s No. 1 ability.

Even if your noggin has taken a puck once or twice and your agent doesn’t let you fart without prior permission, your moral code should not wind up in the penalty box. “Thou shall not kill” isn’t a merely strong suggestion. It serves as the basis of human interaction.

“But, Kal,” the psychobabblists argue, “Danton thought his career and reputation were in imminent danger. He felt truly threatened.” Surely, we hold our livelihood and honor dear. Someone comes along and tries to take them away, we’re not gonna had them over in a gift-wrapped box. I hear ya.

Yet, that’s exactly what Danton did in the space of a few phone calls. He placed his job and rep (already shaky) in the toilet, added a square of TP, then flushed vigorously. Though the St. Louis Blues and several teammates have issued a statement of support, Danton’s career effectively ended in Norman Mineta International Airport.

The team will dump his ass the first second it’s considered tactful to do so. No other pro organization will put him on the ice in the event a jury finds Danton not guilty. It’s not as if Danton was the new Gretzky. He played decently, but not spectacularly. In the end, he never skates again. Unless Tanya Harding comes along with a Goons on Ice Show.

“No, dog, I don’t have your back”

The playing career of b-baller Jayson Williams, 35, had already ended when he used spectacularly poor judgment on the night of Feb. 14, 2002. According to the charges lodged against him, Williams went on a completely avoidable felony spree.

The ex-New Jersey Nets star and TV analyst decided to wind down from a night out on the town by shooting his limousine driver with a shotgun and covering up the crime. I make it sound so lurid, as if Williams was high on PCP then gunned down the chauffer like he was a partridge. Not quite. But close.

Driver Costas “Gus” Christofi transported Williams and friends following a Harlem Globetrotters game in Bethlehem, Pa. The group, with four Globetrotters, paused to refresh themselves with dinner and drinks (bar tab alone: $627) at a New Jersey restaurant.

The journey ended after midnight at Williams’ 65-acre estate in rural New Jersey. The Ponderosa features a 40-room mansion, indoor and outdoor pools, a movie theater, bowling alley, golf course and skeet-shooting range. A private grocery store is still under construction.

While the Globetrotters toured the grounds, the rest of the gang piled into Williams’ manor. They invited Christofi to join them because, after all, there was plenty of room. At this point, Williams thought it a really neat idea to show off his collection of shotguns.

Keep in mind, Williams and several of his friends had some drinks under their belts. Consumption ranged from a single Coors Light to 15 rum and cokes. Other hosts might have directed their guests’ attention to an impressive stamp collection. Or demonstrated a flair for throwing strikes in the bowling alley. Not Williams.

Prosecutors allege the ex-basketball hero displayed his loaded 12-gauge Browning just three feet away from Christofi. The three witnesses in the room testified Williams went from holding the shotgun at his side to jerking it upright as he turned to face the driver. The weapon discharged immediately, sending buckshot into Christofi’s chest.

Now this, as they say delicately, is a very unfortunate situation. Your reaction might start with, “Oh, my God!” It would probably continue onto, “Are you (victim on floor with buckshot) okay?” Finally, as the injured party expired, perhaps you would exclaim, “I f--- up my life!” Williams, according to his friends, did all three. Perfectly natural. Then things went very wrong.

Williams wiped down the shotgun. After that, he asked one of his best friends, 31-year-old Kent Culuko, to wipe down the shotgun, too. Christofi may or may not have still been alive, when Williams tried to press the driver’s palm onto the gun to leave prints. Apparently, Williams has watched some CSI.

He took off his clothes. Williams handed them off to another friend, John Gordnick, 46. Gordnick took the clothes and put them in his car. In his car. Williams went downstairs to his handy indoor pool to swim off evidence. Upon his return, he told everyone to say, “Basically, we were all down stairs.” The lord of the manor also urged his guests to, “Stick with the story.” These are not the droids you're looking for. Move along.

One can understand panicking. The vast majority of people has never shot a human being to death. Who wouldn’t feel overwhelmed, scatter-brained?

However.

If a “friend” asks me to destroy evidence, hide some more, move around the smoking gun and lie to the police, I’m gonna hold my hands up and declare, “Whoa, whoa, whoa! This is a terrible, terrible idea.” Life should not imitate Pulp Fiction.

County prosecutors charged Williams, for all his trouble, with aggravated manslaughter, reckless manslaughter, witness tampering, evidence tampering, hindering apprehension and fabricating evidence. His friends copped pleas on the after-market activity and agreed to testify. The trial lasted three months.

After hearing the evidence, a New Jersey jury issued the following opinion: If you had not tried to pull off a Winston Wolf, we would have let you go. The panel acquitted Williams of aggravated manslaughter, the most serious of the eight counts the defendant faced. They cleared him of assault and gun possession charges. They deadlocked 8-4 in favor of freeing Williams on the reckless manslaughter count. What the former All-Star went down on was everything he did from, “I f--- up my life!” to asking his guests to drink the Kool-Aid with him.

Prosecutors have until Friday to decide if they will retry Williams for reckless manslaughter. The defense, naturally, wants it to go away. Drunkenly waving a shotgun around sounds way past recklessness to me, but I don’t live in New Jersey.

Unfortunately for Danton, things probably will not go so well. There was no guaranteed $86 million contract (like the one Williams had) to fall back on when the party ended. Danton’s trial kicks off in July. He faces a federal jury without the aid of several million little green friends to bodycheck the prosecution. The truth might set you free, but high-priced lawyers are a better bet.

Do I feel sorry that Danton lacked the mental acuity to get himself professional help? Absolutely. A few 50-minute sessions on the couch could have tilted his unbalanced mind away from murder.

Yet, as screwed up as the kid is, the defect afflicting Danton is not mental in nature, but one of character. He concocted an elaborate scheme to end someone’s life with a $10,000 payment. Even my liberal heart cannot bleed for his current situation. Danton rots now in an Illinois jail cell for good reason. Cicero said, “The function of wisdom is discriminating between good and evil.” And the world, Jean de La Fontaine noted centuries later, is full of people who are not wise enough.

“Don’t forget to bring your chaps”

2004-05-12T14:46:00.000-05:00

I ask you, what's the point of getting married if you can't camp it up?

Gays worry about flamboyant nuptials - May 12, 2004

by Jennifer Peter

BOSTON - Some gay-rights advocates are worried that flamboyant, campy, over-the-top gay weddings could hurt their cause when the nation's first state-sanctioned same-sex weddings begin taking place in Massachusetts next week.

"Any sort of bizarre or hyper-unusual weddings will be used as a weapon against the gay community in the political battles of this upcoming year," said Arline Isaacson, co-leader of the Massachusetts Gay and Lesbian Political Caucus. "We obviously have some concern that some media outlets may focus on the flamboyant."

On Monday, cities and towns across Massachusetts will begin accepting applications for marriage licenses for gay couples.

It will be a milestone in the battle for gay rights, but the victory could be short-lived if voters ultimately approve a constitutional amendment to ban same-sex marriage. The earliest that such an amendment could go before the voters is November 2006 - 2-1/2 years from now.

Advocates are worried that if the news media treat gay marriage the same way they have traditionally treated gay pride parades - with the lens focused on the most outrageous spectacles, such as leather-clad Dykes on Bikes, buttocks-flashing cowboys and drag queens - it could become even more difficult to defeat the amendment.

David "Dixie" Federico, a former drag queen and newly ordained online minister in Provincetown, bristled at the idea that gay couples should be forced to tone it down, after being denied marriage for so long. But he predicted tradition will be the order of the day, at least in the first weeks.

"I think everyone in the beginning is going to be on their best behavior," said Federico, who manages a restaurant in Provincetown, a gay tourism hot spot at Cape Cod's tip. "But no matter what, they're going to look for the butchest women and the most effeminate men. It's the nature of the beast."

Alfredo Roldan-Flores, 38, an occupational therapist from Boston, said he and his partner, David Koses, 36, are planning a June wedding and a low-key Sunday brunch.

"I hope the media treats it with the respect it deserves. I really don't want them to make a freak show of it." Associated Press

“GAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!!!”

2004-05-11T22:25:00.000-05:00

If you missed it, then your life will be forever incomplete. THE most incredible hour of television yet presented! Run, don’t walk, to your TiVo and watch the latest episode of 24. I pray you witnessed it with your own eyes or taped the show. If you did not, go to your friend’s place; the one who had the presence of mind to record this program for posterity. Years from now, people will ask you where you were when the “DAY 3: 10:00 AM – 11:00 AM” aired on Fox. Don’t embarrass yourself by saying you missed it. Marines in jets firing missiles. A hostage exchange. Automatic machine guns blazing. Glass breaking. General skullduggery. High crimes and misdemeanors! Only two more episodes left!! GAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!!!

“Thank you, sir, may I have another”

2004-05-10T17:32:00.001-05:00

Donald Rumsfeld was back on the air today, but not in a starring role. This time Rummy played one of Geo. Bush’s backup singers, with Vice President Dick Cheney next to him as Beyonce’s sister. The traveling Iraqi Independence Show made a stop at the Pentagon to reassure a nation unnerved by misdeeds in Mesopotamia.

The ostensible reason for the press conference was to allow the president to reinforce Cheney’s “lay off my buddy Don” defense of the secretary. But Bush couldn’t pass up the opportunity provided by the networks for free exploitation. He had to tell us once again how transcendent U.S. troops have been in carrying life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness to Iraq at the business end of smart bombs and bayonets.

Bush said he remains set on handing over the reigns of power to an Iraqi government (TBA) on June 30. This entity will take over responsibility for “health care, water and electricity,” meaning at least they’ll be one up on the U.S. government. Maybe we should point some bayonets here at home.

“Having brought freedom to Iraq,” the president said from the podium, “America will make sure freedom succeeds in Iraq.” Wonderful. As the cliché goes, with freedom like this, who needs a homicidal dictator?

Heaps of people in the White House and like-minded war supporters around the country can’t understand why the Iraqi people haven’t embraced democracy more fervently. After a few days of shock and awe, the “Welcome Invaders!” mats were supposed to lay in front of every door. Now, a few hundred Marines later, bewilderment has set in.

“Who can doubt that Iraq is better for being free of a bloody dictator?” Bush asked the press corps what he figured was a rhetorical question. Yes, indeed. Nothing says, “I love you,” more than presenting your adored with 100,000 M-16-toting soldiers. One has to wonder if 200 years down the line, citizens of Iraq will hail Bush as the father of Iraqi democracy.

Let me not give you with the impression I think coalition forces are baby-killers committing atrocities whenever they don’t have a combat boot pressed to Iraqi throats. As a friend reminded me, these are men and women who are putting their lives at risk, no matter what I think about the propriety of the war they fight.

Still this conviction, as stated by Sen. Evan Bayh (D-Ind.) that “our cause is morally superior” leaves me a bit queasy. Absolutely, democracy allows me to type snide commentary about my ideological enemies without worrying the front door will be kicked down at 3 a.m. It’s very easy to take that for granted, as members of the VFW will testify.

Happily, the American people can rely on it’s armed forces to prevent a foreign power from reigning terror on Washington, occupying the countryside, besieging Austin, Texas; banning the Republican Party and deposing our leader. Thank goodness.

We Americans have liberty in such abundance, we export it by the battalion. Have another helping, y’all! A price must be paid for freedom, however; it is not without charge. Fighting to lead the free world, our presidential candidates are on pace to drop $200 million a piece to win a “nationwide” election - waged essentially in 17 states. Gotta love the fruits of democracy.

Has anyone informed the Iraqis what they have to look forward to?

“What was that question again?”

2004-05-07T23:27:00.000-05:00

My friend Michael David Smith and I made a day trip down to Champaign in April. It was practically an extemporaneous move, but we made the scene in less than two hours. We attended panel sessions of Roger Ebert’s 6th Annual Film Festival. The second Q&A event featured the outgoing head of the Motion Picture Association of America, Jack Valenti, speaking to a packed house in the Illini Union’s Pine Lounge.

I had no clue Valenti’s resume featured anything more than shilling for the likes of Michael Eisner and Sumner Redstone. He’s a Harvard MBA who piloted B-25 bombers in World War II. He witnessed the assassination of John Kennedy, six cars back from the president. Valenti sat in Air Force One when it flew from Dallas to Washington with the newly-minted Commander in Chief. On top of all that, he can crack wise with the skill of a late-night talk show host.

After scolding the audience for illegally downloading music and movies from the Internet, Valenti accepted questions from the gathered throng. The first guy at the mike launched into a screed biting back at Valenti for his condemnation of digital pirates. The speech went on for what seemed like an hour. I was tempted to step outside and get a Coke from the Courtyard Café. Finally his bombast wheezed to a halt. Valenti waited a perfectly timed instant then said, “What was the question?”

Believe me, knees were slapped.

I recalled that moment as I watched Defense Secretary Donald Rumsfeld today. He and a cohort of Army generals danced for a panel of U.S. senators bent on slinging lead at the feet of these accused.

The parade didn’t step off smoothly. The chair of the Joint Chiefs of Staff admitted he did not have the chain of command chart available for the Armed Services Committee to view. *[Later in the day, some poor son of bitch had his ass whupped good for leaving that chart behind in Virginia.]

Then Rumsfeld’s opening statement ran into problems just as it began. Behind him, a bunch of Americans started to exercise the Constitutional right to bitch out their government. The group attempted to break free from the grasp of the Capitol Police to rush up and throw pig’s blood at people they didn’t like. Uh. Wait a minute. I’m mistaken. It was not a band of PETA members agitating against fur (we regret the error).

The [insert your synonym for “shocking”] pictures of mistreated Iraqi prisoners gripped the members of the committee with near hysteria. Every citizen should know why. If you haven’t seen at least one photo emanating from the Abu Ghraib prison this week, your retinas are not working. The secretary delivered an incontrovertible admission of guilt and begged the forgiveness of friends, Romans, countrymen, legislators, the American people, Iraqi detainees and stray, unneutered cats.

Following the remarks of Armed Services Committee chairman John Warner (R-Va.) lawmakers of the upper house took turns weighing in. More or less, each member squawked an opinion and followed up with all the questions an unctous blowhard can cram into five minutes.

The senator from Massachusetts not running for president, Ted Kennedy, used most of his allotted time to verbally geld the DOD and by extension, George Bush. Kennedy’s speech went on for what seemed like an hour. I was tempted to get a Pepsi from the fridge. The declamation thundered to a close, and a momentary silence ensued.

As Rumsfeld squinted from behind his round specs at Teddy, I realized precisely what response ached to fly from the tip of his tongue. You know he’s got a sense of humor.

Lucky for Rumsfeld (“The chicks call me Rummy”) not all members of the Armed Services Committee wielded blazing guns. Sen. Joe Lieberman (D-Conn.) started off with the requisite denunciation of the bad, bad soldiers who staged the impromptu burlesque shows in Iraq. Putting that behind him, Lieberman struck up a not-too-shabby rendition of the Army song:

“First to fight for the right / And to build the Nation’s might / And the Army goes rolling along. / Proud of all [they] have done / Fighting till the battle’s won / And the Army goes rolling along.”

Alabama’s Jeff Sessions began to clap in time to the melody. “Sing it, boy!” he cried.

“It’s hi, hi, hey! / The Army’s on its way. / Count off the cadence loud and strong - TWO! THREE!” Fighting Joe bellowed on.

Former Navy pilot John McCain abruptly put a stop to this love fest. If you’re looking for an opinion on how to treat POW’s properly, count on McCain to offer a heartfelt thought or three. The man looked p.o.’d beyond any apology, no matter how piteously offered by the military’s top brass. Everyone knows the Arizona Republican spent about a decade (give or take) in a Hanoi hell hole. I could feel the spittle unleashed by the senator’s tirade from my seat on a couch 1,000 miles away. Basically, he bitch-slapped the little grin Rumsfeld was sporting right off the secretary’s face.

Into this untidy intra-party breech stepped Sen. Susan Collins of Maine. Her voice quavered like a disappointed Mommy coming across a fight between siblings. “Stop pulling your brother’s hair, Johnny!” The Yankee Republican didn’t warble a Liebermanesque song of praise, but she felt bound to mention how our troops “secure[d] liberty around the world.”

Her South Carolina counterpart, Sen. Elizabeth Dole, took up the baton and beat the drum with much more slavish devotion. U.S. troops were setting two countries (remember Afghanistan, you cretin) “on the path of democratic and free-market reforms.” The troops had established trust among the vanquished – ah – joyously delirious Iraqi citizens. American G.I.’s were winning hearts and minds with a multitude of good deeds, she said. Dole pointed out, for example, that all 240 hospitals in Iraq were open, and more than 1,000 clinics operated in the country. The list was long and impressive:

170 newspapers running photos of tortured prisoners to their readership’s discontent
679 cats rescued from trees
23,604 little old ladies assisted across the street
582,335 Snickers, Hershey and Babe Ruth bars distributed
2,000,037 William Hung CDs successfully palmed off

Unfortunately, there’s a dark cloud hovering over this silver lining of hope and democracy. Rummy sounded a grim warning to the panel, damning the invention of digital cameras. Floating out in the ether, waiting to fall into the hot hands of Al-Jezeera are even more pictures, and get this - videos, as well. That’s right, moving pictures. The secretary said the coming attractions were “blatantly sadistic; cruel.”

Boys, things are bad. I don’t know what you think, but if something shocks Donald Rumsfeld, I have to believe it’s abominable. The only acts I can fathom being worse than stacking buck-naked people on top of each other happen in films by Quentin Tarantino.

Several senators expressed utter stupefaction at Rumsfeld’s disclosure that he had not seen the complete set of photographs until the previous night.

“When did you know about the pictures, and who did you tell?” Republican Sen. Lindsey Graham of South Carolina inquired. Why didn’t we know about this sooner, many wanted to know.

I found Rumsfeld’s response perfectly reasonable. “I didn’t get the memo.”

Saxby Chambliss, the devil from Georgia who ousted a true American hero from office, offered the secretary of defense a precious nugget of advice: “Get some scapegoats.”

Programming note: You haven’t missed Days of Our Lives … Friday’s episode will air Monday at 1 p.m. on NBC.

“Introducing Marla Maples’ ex-husband”

2004-04-14T23:16:00.000-05:00

I have two words for you, the TV screamed at me: OMA–ROSA! Excuse me, but what the hell does that mean? I’m sitting on the couch trying to get my Law & Order groove on, but NOOOO! In my face is The Donald, that hair, thrusting beautifully manicured fingers and declaring, “You’re fi-ahd!” Guess what, Mr. Look-How-Great-I-Am Trump? I don’t work for you or your fried-looking hair. Take that. I once heard this joke (I think Dennis Miller did it) about Bill Gates that I'll adapt to Trump: Forbes says Donald Trump is worth $2.5 billion. [beat] I guess a good haircut costs 3 billion.

I know the rest of the universe loves The Apprentice, but someone is going to have to esplain it to me. Excuse my shameful ignorance of prevailing pop culture – I’ve never watched it and I DON’T GET IT. Oh my god. I said it. Will the world forgive me? Can I still truly call myself a pop-culture junky? I know literally millions are totally embarrassed for me now because I am the only person in the continental U.S. of A. who does not experience near-sexual arousal when 9 p.m. (Central) Thursday rolls around. You turn your head and pretend you don’t know me when I come around. Admit it.

From what I’ve been able to piece together, The Donald has a group of people in a wood-paneled board room whom he screams at and makes kiss his pasty white ass. Or is it that they kneel and kiss his ring? I get confused. Anyway, the guys compete against the women for the opportunity to suck Donald’s toenails, right? I hear the big toe is the sweetest, mmmm!

Anyway, I’m told the whole Western world will be tuned in April 15 for the climactic LIVE final episode of The Apprentice. Trump attaches the last two contestants to the front of his 14-carat gold, diamond- and ruby-encrusted dog sled (strangely enough, it has bulletproof tinted windows), cracking his whip over their naked backs to force them down the streets of Gotham, taking The Donald along for the ride. Last flunky still standing after the other one drops from exhaustion gets a job with the Trump Organization cleaning toilets and brushing Donnie’s teeth every morning. Sounds like a really awesome gig.

“Idle chatter”

2004-03-31T13:36:00.000-06:00

Rachel -

So I’m at the clinic for what I thought was a 1 o’clock appointment. I get to the counter at 12:30 and spell my last name a couple of times to be told, “You’re coming up Person Not Found in the computer. You’ll have to wait for the administrator. Great. “The Administrator.” For some reason I picture this short, black bitchy woman with hoop earrings and a lot of attitude, who’ll tell me to go fuck myself. I mean, she won’t actually say the words, “Go fuck yourself,” but it will be pretty obvious that is what she’s trying to convey.

Stupid of me, I left the appointment papers they gave me in the kitchen so my mother could throw them away two days ago. How convenient, you know? So I have no way of proving I was ever here four weeks ago and that I was given a prescription and an appointment to refill said “scrip.” (That’s how we medical specialists refer to them). By the way. Have I ever mentioned being poor really blows? Consider it mentioned.

Okay, the administrator turned out the be a pleasant woman in a yellow sweater and a big smile. She said, “Oh, we’ll go ahead and see you. That’s your gift for today!” Thank you, thank you. They gave me a form to take up the third floor: “Turn left and go to the glass room.” Of course, you get to where they send you and then have absolutely no idea what to do once you arrive.

There’s no one sitting at the desk near the glass door and nobody in sight. I wish I could get one of these jobs where you don’t have to give a flying fuck about being helpful, efficient or visible. Remember at the Visitors Center when we had to act like we gave a damn?

Now I’m waiting in front of the Registration and Information room, so I can get an appointment to go back to the second floor and wait some more to see a doctor. I am the luckiest person in the world. Even better – get this – the fuckin’ Maury Show is on. If you’ve never seen Maury, don’t bother. It’s trashy. Not as bad as say, Jerry Springer, but certainly on the same level as Ricki Lake. Every other day, Maury has on these women who have asked their current or ex-boyfriends to take paternity test. This is supposedly to establish if the men are also fathers. In reality, it gives Maury the opportunity to parade pathetic, desperate women and their sleazy, disrespectful sex partners on the stage and so he can scream either, “You ARE the father!” or the dreaded “You are NOT the father!” Note how Maury changes the emphasis depending on the outcome. Very dramatic. Seriously, this happens every other day. I guess the two-headed midget lesbians need some time off, too.

The TV in the waiting area is blaring this drivel to folks who can’t help but hear it. Today’s “topic” (I use the term loosely) is young teenage girls who dress like boys. We’re talking XXL hoodies, baggy sweatpants / jeans, do rags or backward caps, finished off with sk8er shoes. All of the girls (13-14-15) white or black talk as if they just stepped out of the ghe-tto! two minutes ago. It’s very annoying to hear Little Miss Suburbia mouthing off like a black dude to shout down a loud New Yawk audience.

Anyway, Maury promises the moms (there’s also a big bald-headed dad and a boyfriend of one girl thrown in for good measure) of these miscreants that he’s gonna transform the tomboys into good looking honies. Every commercial break we’re relentlessly shown previews of what’s to come – the parents looking all shocked at their “new” girl. To keep us out in tvland on the edge of our seats, the girls are blurred out. Hoo boy. I can’t wait to see this.

I’m still waiting to get into the holy Mary mother of god glass room, by the way.

Oh, now the moment we’ve all anticipated has arrived. Let’s check ’em out, Rachel … Okay, not bad. I’m not right on top of the television set – nor do I want to be – but I can definitely see from here the “boyz” have been transformed into proper young ladies. Several of them are quite cute. Good lord. One woman is gushing over her daughter like she just came out of the womb. Great, they’re calling my name ...

I’m back on the second floor waiting another eternity. Earlier we were talking about shitty employees. May I present Exhibit A, the woman who registered me whilst I sat in the holy land. She comes to the door and spells my name (she can’t pronounce Lwanga) and says, “Go to blah-blah,” and points vaguely into the office. I clearly look confused because she immediately yells, “Go to BOOTH 4.” Pardon me for not hearing your original, non-helpful mumble. This is the short black woman with attitude I’ve been waiting for all my life. Thankfully my time with her was brief. I’ve got the distinct feeling I’ll be on the second floor for at least a while and a half.

To chat about something else for a bit, guess what mix CD I’m listening to right this moment? Wrong. Nuh-uh. Sorry. All right, I’ll tell you: Rachel’s Pop Psychology Mix. No, I didn’t sneak back to Oakland, break in and steal yours. I’m “borrowing” a copy Johnny made for himself. Remember, it’s the CD he burned for you last year. Or was it 2002? It’s good; I like his selections. Perfect waiting room music, it turns out. Yo mix is spinning in my brand-new SONY Sport CD playa. I bot it last week from Sears. My father gave me a giftcard to The Big Store for Christmas. I’ll admit, my first reaction was “Sears?!” The last time I walked through that place, I was using it as a shortcut to get the hell out of the mall. I don’t even browse in Sears, much less shop there. But right after that I thot, “Cool! I can use it to replace my old CD player.”

Last August, I dropped it on the sidewalk in front of John & Brian’s complex. I paid something like 90 bucks for the damn thing, and the CD stopped working. So now I had a very expensive portable AM/FM radio that was less than a year old! (It was one of those tuner/CD combos). As you can imagine, I was pissed off by this development. Lucky my dad came through, huh? The new playa is so chic looking – and sporty; don’t forget sporty – for the urban young gay man on the go. You should see people’s heads snap to catch a glimpse of me walk by as I listen to my hip tunes. I’m even jealous of myself.

Anyway, it’s a good thing I’ve got it because my ass is still waitin’ on a doctor. At least there’s something to keep me occupied. Hold on … false alarm. A woman called my name, I gathered up ally ma shit only to have her ask me to sit down again. “Please to wait,” she says in a cute Russian-type accent. You might think I’m getting antsy, but actually I am chillin’ like a villain. What the hell else would I be doing anyway? Getting ready to watch yet another episode of Law & Order. Okay, finally ...

Well that didn’t take long. So the doc (Miss From Russia With Love) says we’ll keep doing what we’re doing now, only more of it. For that I waited half a day. Honey, I am telling you. People should be ecstatic Kasumba Lwanga is such a wonderful human being. Otherwise the strain of livin’ in America would make Kasumba Lwanga go OFF! (I was watching TV a while back and some guy was talking about himself in the third person. I found it amusing). Baby doll, our time together is quickly coming to a close. From here I’ve got to catch some public transportation which, let me tell you, will put waiting for a doctor to shame. Oh. Remind me to tell you about this one chick yakking about her co-worker drama on the cell phone behind me on the bus the other day. Wait by the mailbox.

Love,
Kasumba

“Lennon/McCartney”

2004-03-13T23:56:00.000-06:00

By the way - I very rarely write poety. This is from a year ago ...

While you were away, celebrating your sobriety and all that comes with it, I dug myself deeper into that pit that ends in jail, institutions and death.

While you were away, doing what you needed to do, I’m afraid to say, I wasn’t.

And while you were away, outside of radio contact, up in the hills that don’t allow for new-fangled man-made inventions, I left a message that said, “I miss you.” You heard it and challenged me on it. And I could not deny.

But while you’re away, so far from me I cannot look past the ring on my finger to see your wicked smile above. To hear your laughing voice. I know.

Now you are away.

How far you are away depends on the ability of a broken heart to grant forgiveness and more importantly, receive it. I’ve broken so many, I’m running out of ways to put them all back together again. And still I’m here. Smashing the one that should be most important.

So while I was away, I dreamed of somewhere past the input, past the Moogs and hexidecimal calculations, far beyond the losing of my religion in a place where I couldn’t dream of pollution, and having no one to call at the end of a day. I had that today. For a while.

But now you and I are away.

And I ask myself, “Forever?” That hand you offered, and told me to listen to myself and said that hand was there … do I still have that hand to keep me singing on key, recognizing the 24 channels of musical nonsense Madonna pumps at me in her latest theme song? “Was she ever No. 1?” I ask Johnny.

What do I celebrate now that you are away? How could I have even thought this would work without your bassline.

While you are away, I remember not wanting to write a song about her years hence, slaving over that bassline for a lover who will never be there. In Mariposa. Or anywhere else. I know that’s not me.

And while you were away, you might have wondered, “Why?” And I ask that of myself as I walk away from another useless day.

What do I have to do, while you’re away?

While you were away, outside of radio contact, up in the hills that don’t allow for new-fangled man-made inventions, I left a message that said, “I miss you.” You heard it and challenged me on it. And then I could not deny …

[FADE]

Copyright MMIII Kasumba Kal Lwanga.

“Psst! Lyndon LaRouche is a nut. Pass it on”

2004-03-12T21:32:00.000-06:00

On my way back from having dinner with my mom (a lovely repast at Northwoods in Homewood – she had a chicken sandwich with ranch sauce on the side; I enjoyed “The Monico Burger,” an open-face half-pound sandwich smothered in gravy with a side of mashed potatoes) when we heard the strangest thing on the radio. A recorded voice informed us, “The following is a paid political announcement.” After a pause, “I’m Lyndon LaRouche, and I approved this message,” came out of the radio and my jaw dropped. I mean, LaRouche is a convicted felon who spouts the most bizarre philosophy: Take “I stand at the bedside of a doomed empire” or “I have a mission,” and who could forget, “The women on Mars.” You know what? I don’t think Lyndon lives in the same universe you and I do. This guy agrees. As mom and I drove along 183rd Street, LaRouche told us, “There are only two candidates of signifigance in the race for the Democratic nomination. John Kerry and me.” I barely avoided swerving off the road when astonishment temporarily blurred my vision. Lyndon continued undeterred: “Kerry doesn’t grasp the international monetary economy and doesn’t see it’s imminent collapse. I do.” You know, there’s probably a lot LaRouche sees that the rest of us don’t. For example, I don’t plan on seeing Lyndon speak for half an hour on CLTV this Saturday, March 13 at 7 p.m. I could hardly stand listening to 30 seconds of LaRouche, much less watching him for 30 minutes. Lyndon is the kind of nut who makes other nuts mutter to themselves as they rock back and forth, alone, in the alley behind the restaurant, “That guy is crazy.”

“No my first name ain't baby. It's Jack ... Mr. Ryan if you're nasty!”

2004-03-12T17:10:00.000-06:00

WLS-TV Channel 7's political reporter Andy Shaw was live at a Republican fundraiser in the suburbs last night during the 10 o’clock news. He reported that “allegations” have been leveled against the frontrunner for the Republican nomination for U.S. Senate, Jack Ryan. He cautioned his viewers that because these “allegations” have not been substantiated, he would not get into “specifics.” So instead, he cut to video of him interviewing Republican rival retired Gen. John Borling’s campaign manager Rod McCullogh, the guy who opened Pandora’s box, as it were. McCullogh said he saw the documents containing the “allegations.” How and when this transpired, he would not say. He was willing to testify, however, that the excuse Ryan has given for not unsealing his divorce records (protecting his 9-year-old son) was not true. The allegations did not involve his son, he said. Then we cut to another Republican hopeful for the Senate, state Sen. Steven Rauschenberger (endorsed by many, unloved by voters) telling the camera, “Jack needs to come clean, so that we Republicans know we are nominating the strongest candidate for November!” [exclamation point, mine] Finally, we have a gratuitous shot of Ryan’s ex-wife Jeri Ryan (who played No. 7 of 9 on TV's Star Trek) in a low-cut dress, which flows into a shot of Ryan with microphones shoved in his face (he looks tall) not responding to reporters’ question. “I simply will not respond to lies and false allegations. That’s it.” And he looked like he meant it – frowny face! So then we go back to Andy live, who said he wasn’t going to get “specific,” remember? If I’m a Republican voter – heck, just a regular person – I sure as hell want to know what exactly has been alleged. Andy was everything right up to “specific” without spelling it out for ya. I was a little surprised that a major media outlet picked up the story broken by others, but now it’s out there. We’ll see if Ryan keeps on stonewalling. For me, of course, it’s sooo delish. Mwah-ha-ha-ha!

“We have fun, don’t we?”

2004-03-11T17:19:00.000-06:00

Off and on over the years (more off than on) I’ve belonged to a Yahoo! discussion group – di4ever. As the founder Dan Johnson-Weinberger describes it, the list is “A bunch of old wannabe columnists who miss their college days of writing columns for the DI and want to post columns to each other.” Check out how witty we are. I used to write for The Daily Illini as an Opinions editor and columnist from 1995-1998. So I have some experience in opinion writing, and I know what I like when it comes to columns. I like David Obuchowski’s writing. I thought he was funny when we worked together at the DI, and apparently, he remains high-larious to this day. After posting to di4ever this week, David had a response. I couldn’t contain my excitement. “Yay!” I cried when I saw his name, “David Obuchowski!” [I have not seen nor heard from David in many years]. This struck me as a happy coincidence, because just a few weeks before I came across an old column of his clipped from the paper long ago. David e-mailed to ask if I was living in New York? because he lived in Brooklyn, and maybe we could catch up some time? I wrote back and admitted I have never set foot in New York City (how can I call myself a real American?), a metropolis I call the capital of the Western World. If you can make it there, you’ll make it anywhere, &c., &c. Then I had a series of newspaper guy questions: What was he doing? How long had he been in NYC? Did he like living there? What are the steps one can take to avoid getting killed in Central Park? You know, the regular stuff. Minutes later (no kidding), I got the following response, which made me laugh, cry and clap all at once. Okay, I didn’t cry, but I came pretty close. I e-mailed back to ask David if I could put his brilliance on display. He graciously agreed. Enjoy:

Recently, David Obuchowski and Kasumba Kal Lwanga – two former colleagues from The Daily Illini and superb writers – had a chance to talk. Interview magazine is more than honored to present their conversation.

K: What are you doing?
D: Well, I’m chewing some Ice Breakers “Unleashed” gum that I got as a free sample when I purchased my coffee this morning. The packaging says that the gum is “winteractive.” Funny how much our world has changed since the advent of Interactivity...and Winter.

K: Indeed it is. Insightful as always. I have to ask, what kind of coffee did you get this morning?
D: Well, I got a large hazelnut, no sugar, and black. I take my coffee like I prefer my former colleagues.

K: [Laughs]
D: [Laughs]

K: [Laughs] Indeed.
D: [Laughs] We have fun, don’t we?

K: [Chuckling] Yes we do. So, David, how long have you been in New York?
D: Well, I moved here to Brooklyn on October 25, 2003.

K: And where did you live before that?
D: Well, Kasumba – Kal – I lived in Chicago for a year. Before that, I lived in Austin, Texas for a year.

K: Now, aren’t you from Texas?
D: [Stony silence]

K: [Anticipation]
D: [More silence]

K: David, I asked –
D: I know what you asked! How dare you insinuate I came from that, that, state?!

K: I’m sorry. I just thought I remember reading in some of your past columns about you going home to Texas.
D: Yes, well, if you read closer you’d know that I’m from New Jersey and that when I moved out of the house to attend the University of Illinois, my parents moved to Houston. Aside from the year I lived in Austin after school, I actually never held residence in Texas.

K: I’m sorry about the misunderstanding. Can you forgive me?
D: [sighs] OK.

K: Do you like New York?
D: Well, seeing as how it’s sort of a homecoming since I came from New Jersey – not Texas – yes, I love it. The neighborhood is beautiful, rather like the neighborhood in that black fellow’s TV show – oh yes, The Cosby Show.

K: Does my ass look big to you, because you know, I wrote about this in my blog, and I just wanted to see what you thought...
D: Why, you’re too hard on yourself, chum! Body of a swimmer, have you.

K: It was absolutely enchanting to speak with you.
D: The enchantment is all mine, mon ami.

“It used to be the bomb”

2004-03-11T10:55:00.000-06:00

I had a dream this morning in which someone made fun of the shirt I was wearing (in the dream, not real life). Though most of my dreams disappear in a wisp of smoke when I awake, this one survived with several details intact. Getting made fun of is usually something you tend not to forget. Especially when it’s your own brain generating the insult. Anyway, the setting was some kind of camp – summer camp, I guess. Another kid and I were having a conversation. All of sudden, the other guy said, “What kind of shirt is that? Tommy Hill … ” he trailed off as he pointed to a label at the bottom of the garment. The shirt I wore in the dream actually exists in my wardrobe. It is a Tommy Hilfiger dress shirt with the Union Jack printed on it. In this particular instance, I had it unbuttoned to reveal a red T-shirt. (Yes, I might have worn such an outfit in real life.) The surprise in my voice could not be disguised. “It’s a Tommy Hilfiger. You haven’t heard of him?” He laughed and said, “No.” I immediately wanted to respond by telling him, “It used to be the bomb!” But my brain (whether in the real or dream world) screamed, “SHUT UP! Don’t say a word,” and promptly choked the nerve leading from the speech center to my vocal cords. The dream ended. I opened my eyes to consider the insulting experience I’d just had. “Okay, one of my favorite shirts was laughed at. And, I am so old that I considered using ‘the bomb’ in a sentence. Whaa!”

“Say hello to my lil’ fren’ … ”

2004-03-10T17:01:00.000-06:00

Oh, yeah. My friend, Jay Jones, has recently started up a weblog of his own. Click here to catch a glimpse of his Hoosier wit, wisdom, occasional mayhem and acerbic comments about W. He doesn't post all that often, but when he does it's like a window to his soul. ... [Oh hey, Jay, if you're reading this don't forget to send that 5 bucks ASAP.]

“Tell me how to be a Millionaire”

2004-03-10T13:22:00.000-06:00

There is this big, black guy Francis Grant Jr. on the syndicated version of Who Wants to Be a Millionaire? kicking ass and taking names. He’s up to $64,000, going for $125,000 and he hasn’t used a lifeline. Which is amazing. I don’t know if there’s some kind of affirmative action going on (because both of us knew the answers - almost immediately on his part, and instantaneously on mine) but the guy is doing much better than your average contestant on Millionaire.

I have always loved this show. When it premiered in 1999, I was gripped by Millionaire mania at once. I could not miss a show. Greg Wu and I shared an apartment at the time, and we both frantically tried to get on the show, with Wu being more frantic. After you’ve exhausted yourself the previous night trying to get through to the contestant hotline, the joy of Millionaire is shouting at the idiots on the TV who are puzzling over the choices for something like “To what office did John F. Kennedy appoint his brother and campaign manager Robert F. Kennedy in his cabinet?” Can you believe there was someone on the show recently who did not know RFK was JFK’s Attorney General? That kid chose Secretary of State!

Oh, and then the ultimate, just in time for Black History Month. The question, “What are the words at the end of Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.’s ‘I Have a Dream’ speech?’” The guy in the Hot Seat had to hem-and-haw before he used his 50-50 to narrow it down to “Free at last” and “Let freedom ring.” And even after that he hesitated before - thank you Jesus - picking the correct answer. I’m not even going to insult you by printing which one. Do they teach ANYTHING in social studies anymore?

The thing about Millionaire is you have to know more than just facts and figures. You must have a knowledge of pop culture and current events, or else you’re screwed. I’ve seen questions come up where it’s something like, “What was the name of Aston Kutcher’s character in the movie Dude Where’s My Car?” If you think Kutcher’s a crappy actor and avoided the film like the plague, fine. But you’re going to forced to use a lifeline to get past the question.

Ideally you should not use any lifeline before reaching the $32,000 level. That’s what Francis Grant Jr. did. And he won $250,000 before bowing out. On the revival of the primetime version of Millionaire last month, a woman sat across from Regis Philben and puzzled over this one: “The larvae of what insect cause the jump action of Mexican jumping beans?” Her choices were: “A. Housefly, B. Moth, C. Flea, D. Ladybug.”

If you’ve never noticed, there’s a thing that Regis does often. It’s called, “giving the contestant obvious hints on which answer to pick.” As the woman started talking her way through the question, she thought the answer was “flea.” Regis almost choked while on air. He leaned towards her saying, “It says LARVAE.” “Stupid” was totally implied. I certainly picked up on it.

The host looked downright irritated when the woman then decided to use the “Ask the Audience” lifeline. He leaned back in the chair with an okay-DUMBASS look on his face and asked the audience to punch their keypads. Something like 53 percent chose flea. Now Regis appeared ready to kick a few people in the butt. The woman in the Hot Seat chose flea, getting it wrong as Regis knew she would. The host couldn’t wait to shuffle her off the set.

What irritates me more than anything is when a contestant uses TWO lifelines to get out of a jam. That’s simply unforgivable. It screams to me, “LOSER.” Anyone using two lifelines before the $64,000 question will soon be walking away. Why, why, why do they let people on the show who have no clue? Ugh. Meredith Vieira, the host of the syndicated version, is another personal peeve. When I first saw her sitting in the chair opposite the Hot Seat I thought, “Oh, how low the mighty have fallen.” Didn’t she used to be a real journalist? Now this.

Meredith is no Regis.

She has this disgusting way of trying to put the audience and contestant in suspense by stalling on the correct answer. Or she’ll start by saying, “Hmm. You thought the correct answer was ‘Dog feces’ [long annoying pause, frown] … and you were right!” [big smile] Honey, I’m not buying it. Still, I love WWTBAM? and occasionally rope my sister in to watching it with me. She’s much more indifferent than I am.

A question appears on the screen: “Which of the following medicines do those who suffer from congestion use for relief? A. Antihistamine, B. Dramamine, C. Ibuprophen, or D. Acetaminophen?” The dumb-dumb de jour claims ignorance and throws it to the audience. I drop to the floor and writhe as if in pain. “Make it stop. Make it stop! Get him out of there!” The folks in the studio come back with 97 percent in favor in antihistamine. That’s about as strongly as the audience can scream, “DUMBASS!” without actually doing so. The guy shrugs unapologetically and says, “I don’t have allergies.”

I yell, “You EEDIOT!” In the loud silence that follows, sister Nakie asks with a bored voice, “Can we change now?”

“Baby got back”

2004-03-10T11:44:00.000-06:00

On the way to the shower recently, before the toilet but after the soap dish, I caught sight of something in the mirror. Why I had never noticed this, I cannot say. It must have been a accidental confluence of events or, perhaps, years of ignorance on my part. But there it was, in the lookingglass, my posterior. My rather large posterior. “Oh, my god, Becky. Look at his butt.” Frankly, I had no idea my butt was so big. “How did this transpire?” I asked my reflection. It had no answer. After freezing in horror for a very long moment, I moved out of the mirror’s line of sight. I had to digest this new information. It disturbed me that none of my friends had mentioned my big butt; hadn’t taken me aside before to say in a low but urgent tone, “Kal – uh – I hate to be the one who mentions it to you … Maybe you should lay of the McDonald’s. Your - how should I say this? - butt is out there. I mean, it’s just so big. You look like a total prostitute. You're just so black.” I would have been shocked, sure, perhaps even deeply offended depending on who dispensed the warning/advice. But at least I would have known; taken the proper steps to remedy the situation. I could have installed warning lights and a “CAUTION: BIG BUTT” sign. Or in a less drastic move, started doing that “Buns of Steel” stuff. Now that I think about it, I shouldn’t be so surprised by my prodigious backside. Years ago, in college, my friend Nicole once told me, “Baby, your butt is so big, I could put an entertainment center on it and still have room for a stereo!” I’m not making that up. At the time, I thought Nicole was exaggerating. No one else, before or since, has breathed a word about my butt. So I chalked it up to teasing banter among friends. How wrong I was, apparently. I tend to wear trousers that are, “roomy,” I guess is a good euphemism. It’s not as if I walk around in tight jeans, flaunting my heretofore unknown badonkadonk. How could I have had any inkling of the wide load I carried behind me, as it were? You might think I’m needlessly fretting. If nobody can see it, unless they’re in the shower with me, what is the problem? Well, I know. That’s enough. Honestly, I don’t want to be bootylicious. From now on, until it shrinks or falls off, my butt will be staying away from the mirror. “Oh, Kal, get over it. Your butt is cute.” Yeah, cute, my ass.

“I’m Blair Hull and I approved this message”

2004-03-06T22:49:00.000-06:00

Right before the beginning of Saturday Night Live, there were ads from practically every single Illinois Democrat running for the U.S. Senate seat being vacated by Republican Peter Fitzgerald. I had no idea the SNL demographic was so politically attuned.

Without a break between them, I was treated to the vastly differing positions ("jobs good, Bush bad") of Gery Chico, Blair Hull, Dan Hynes,Barack Obama and Maria Pappas. Apparently Nancy Skinner and Joyce Washington own $3 in the bank between them, which pretty much rules out advertising even at four in the morning.

Chico, Hynes, Obama and Pappas have the luxury of trying to advance their candidacies by bashing Bush and explaining how wonderful a performance they'd put in for us on Capitol Hill. Poor Hull, on the other hand, must try to erase from our minds images of him hitting his ex-wife, Brenda Sexton, on the shin and calling her a word that's not only unprintable, it's usually considered unutterable by most civilized people. Just to be salacious, I'll let you know the Sun-Times ran a particularly juicy story ("Hull's stormy divorce records unsealed," reported by Frank Main) on Feb. 28, which lets you in on all the details. ALL of them.

Blair's ad accused "the insiders" (you know who they are, that evil bunch) of trying to derail his campaign by bringing up dirt about his divorce from Sexton. While the people's champion is only interested in getting us all cheap drugs from Canada, the media continue to ask questions about Brenda. I'll have to be up front with you: I've never been a big fan of Hull. It's nothing personal. Okay, maybe it is. I'm not wild about multimillionaires. I'm particularly ambivalent toward them when they try to buy U.S. Senate seats. Have we learned nothing from the Fitzgerald fiasco?

Even when I was in California, Hull's mug would stare back at me every time I stopped by the Sun-Times Web site in search of news from home. His banner ads are so ubiquitous, I'm sure they're paying for several salaries over at 401 N. Wabash. I thought to myself last summer, "Do we really need another rich white guy in the Senate?" You can guess what my answer was.

After dumping $24 million - and counting - of his wealth into the campaign, Hull isn't going to walk away from the Democratic nomination simply because "the insiders" (those awful folks) are stirring up shit. I wonder if it ever occurred to Hull that perhaps it's regular folks who are also a wee bit aghast at his past behavior.

People might be able to forgive an order of protection. After all, who among us hasn't flung a remote control across the room - particularly after having to suffer through, say, another disastrous Bears game? But two orders of protection smacks not just of carelessness, but a lack of self-control. I can overlook a great deal. Lord knows I've made mistakes in my life.

But when a candidate is quoted in an affidavit asking his wife, "Do you want to die? I'm going to kill you ... " well, my sympathy can only go so far. It has been pointed out that a man can be a crappy husband and still be a good leader (exhibit A: Bill Clinton). But nominating Hull could lead to disaster in November. I swear, if that glib pretty boy Jack Ryan wins, I will jump out of my window. Yes, we're on the first floor, but you get the gist.

I wouldn't have a problem with any of the major candidates grabbing the brass ring. Even Nancy Skinner. But we need to get this seat back. I'm Kal Lwanga, and I not only approved this message, I wrote it.

“This one goes out to … ”

2004-03-06T18:15:00.000-06:00

First of all, I would like to thank Dan Johnson-Weinberger. Through him, all things are possible.