Bad Blogger!!!

This weekend is not only Memorial Day, but the last one before I leave town. There's a long list of things that I have to forget to do.

Expect sporadic posting until Monday.

The Living End

So Alberto Gonzalez was willing to resign as Attorney General if George Bush told him to relinquish evidence against Rep. Bill Jefferson.

That is the principle for which he's willing quit.

Not torture. Not extraordinary rendition. Not data mining. Not compelling phone companies to hand over private records. Not wiretapping journalists.

Good. That's good.

It's nice to know where the line is. You know, for the future. Just in case.

Advice from Uncle Matthew

It's almost a done deal. I'm going back east now, but there's definitely a bitter taste about how it all went down--most of the bitterness directed inwardly, but...

There are some lessons to be learned here. I wish I had chosen to learn them on a six-week long job instead of a six-month long one, but here they are:

Lesson One: Always be ready to walk away.

Lesson Two: No one will ever volunteer information that you don't think to ask about.

Lesson Three: Never negotiate for yourself.

Lesson Four: Never start giving up your time to a project until you have a deal in writing.

Lesson Five: Never assume that you will be treated fairly by anybody.

On at least some level, I screwed myself on all five of these fronts.

Fuck.

"Finale" is Not Accurate

See, when you call a TV episode a "finale" it means it should be the resolution of something. So, at the risk of repeating myself...

Chumps.

For those of you who watched the "Lost" finale last night, what did you learn? What new information did you get that made it worth sitting through 22 incredibly boring flashbacks this year? Anything that made you care more about any of these characters?

I didn't think so.

Okay, so there's no more hatch, which means no more shower and no more laundry. Charlie's deaf, which will hopefully make it impossible for him to sing or play the guitar. Eko and Locke are missing and presumed tedious. And the three stars of the show have been kidnapped by the Others, about whom we know just as little today as we did one year ago.

The one new wrinkle was the show's first non-flashback look at the outside world and it had...no context whatsoever. Nothing. You could have showed it at the beginning of the episode (or the season) and it would have had just as much relevance to the audience.

Well, enjoy the summer. Only four short months 'til we get yanked around again.

Screenwriter's Blues

by Mike Doughty

exits to freeways twisted like knots on the fingers
jewels cleaving skin between breasts
your cadillac reads 400 horses over blue lines
you are going to Reseda to make love to a model from Ohio
whose real name you don't know

you spin like the cadillac was overturning down a cliff on television
and the radio is on
and the radio man is speaking
and the radio man says women were a curse
so men built Paramount studios
and men built Columbia studios
and men built Los Angeles

it is 5 a.m. and you are listening to Los Angeles
it is 5 a.m. and you are listening to Los Angeles

and the radio man says it is a beautiful night out there
and the radio man says rock and roll lives
and the radio man says it is a beautiful night out there in Los Angeles
you live in Los Angeles and you are going to Reseda
we are all in some way or another going to Reseda some day, to die
and the radio man laughs because the radio man fucks a model too

gone savage for teenagers with automatic weapons and boundless love
gone savage for teenagers who are aesthetically pleasing,
in other words, fly

Los Angeles beckons the teenagers to come to her on buses
Los Angeles loves love

it is 5 a.m. and you are listening to Los Angeles
it is 5 a.m. and you are listening to Los Angeles

i am going to Los Angeles to build a screenplay about lovers
who murder each other
i am going to Los Angeles to see my own name on a screen
five feet long and luminous

as the radio man says it is 5 a.m. and the sun has charred
the other end of the world and come back to us
and painted the smoke over our heads an imperial violet

it is 5 a.m. and you are listening to Los Angeles
it is 5 a.m. and you are listening to Los Angeles
you are listening
you are listening
you are listening....
to Los Angeles.

Great Moments in Advertising

This billboard is near my house.


Isn't it nice to see Oprah smiling again?

Situation No-Win

I've worked a lot of strange shows, and in the course of doing so I've talked to a lot of strange people. Guys who have drilled holes in their skull, BASE jumpers who look for specifically dangerous takeoff points, folks who think the CIA is bugging them through their teeth--when we all know that's the NSA. There have been some nice folks, too, but the nice to strange ratio looks a lot like your odds of winning the lottery.

In the course of talking to these people, you try to shut off the judgement center of your brain--or in my case, the whole thing. You dutifully write down whatever it is they say:

"Uh-huh...uh-huh...Absolutely...That sounds like a lot to take in...Absolutely..."

And when you hang up, you can let all the judgement vent. It's better this way. I call it the Art Bell approach.

As the years have gone on, it has become more difficult to hold on to the Art Bell approach. Call it a lack of patience, call it a lack of respect for the job. You begin to slip:

"Uh-huh...yeah...Attacked by what?...No, it sounds like you definitely have something there...What do I think it is?...Chemical imbalance, maybe..."

The question I'm getting a lot these days is, "Are you a believer?"

"Believer" encompasses belief in all of the various paranormal occurences, such as ghosts, electronic voice phenomena, and possession. The people who ask this invariably do believe in ghosts and their asking the question is their litmus test of your tolerance.

Since my slips have started, I respond differently than I used to. It used to be a slow nod with a kicker of how we all have to be open-minded to the things we can't see. Now I have a new answer.

Yes, I am a believer. I believe sincerely that the people who hold onto these notions are lunatic, batshit crazy. And I'm beginning to resent the question.

The question "Do you believe in ghosts?" suggests that there are two equally rational arguments to be made and that you can fall on one side or the other and still be considered perfectly reasonable. This is simply not true. One side has a obligation to prove the existence of ghosts and has failed for, oh, the entirety of human history to do so. The other side just has to wait for the proof.

I will be meeting a lot more believers in the coming months and I expect to get the question a lot more frequently. I'll have to spackle over my cynicism for a while, and won't be so rude as to insult anybody, but I refuse to go back to the nod-and-smile.

It's my job to find the stories that make the best television, not to reinforce anyone's delusions in the process. Just because someone is sure that Lizzie Borden is trying to talk to them through the static on their radio doesn't mean that I have to swallow it, too.

This may sound harsh, but I don't mean it to be. I'm just tired of pretending that all opinions are equally credible, and not just in this respect. Do we really need to debate evolution and creationism on the same playing field? Holocaust revisionism?

Liberals are rightfully known for their tolerance, but there has to be a limit. Sometimes, just being willing to argue a point lends credence to unreasonable opposition. We have to stop falling for this.

I'm starting right now.

Bootleg Osama!

Well, blow me over with a feather. On a poorly recorded internet audio broadcast, Osama Bin Laden says Zacharias Moussaoui had nothing to do with 9/11.

Of course, Osama has a good reason to say this--by exposing the only person successfully tried for an Al Qaeda operation as a mentally ill fraud, he stands to really embarrass the United States in the world community, if that's still possible. Just because it benefits Bin Laden to say it, though, doesn't automatically make it untrue.

Sure, he's probably very willing to lie in order to do make us look bad, but if the truth works this well he'll use that, too.

It has seemed all along that despite extremely thin evidence, prosecutors were content use Moussaoui's courtroom outbursts and noxious, self-aggrandizing testimony to grab an emotionally satisfying but empty victory from a jury. When you read what the guy said on the stand, it's easy to understand why 11 members of the jury wanted him dead. But I never read a single thing besides his word that tied him directly to 9/11. Nothing that suggests that he was anything other than some sleeper cell's court jester, their village idiot.

As a member of Al Qaeda, he needed to be taken off the streets. There had to be a fair, transparent trial to demonstrate that we live by the rule of law. Instead, we used him to show that we were doing something after 9/11. That's all well and good--up to a point.

But what does it say about this administration that a man who has spent four years holed up in a cave is so capable of embarrassing us, just by talking? Just by living? Shouldn't we do something about that, as well?

Bad Vibes

Always go with your first instinct.

This is true of everything from multiple choice tests to romance. The foolhardy always second guess themselves, but that first instinct is a certain truth in an uncertain world and it is not to be trifled with.

Right now, my instinct is run so quickly from this job that I go back in time. There's no particularly good reason why, either. It's just a feeling. A hunch. The kind that makes you sort of queasy when you think about it.

I'm still here, I'm still planning on going through with the full six months. It's just giving me the skeevs in a huge way. Wonder why that is. Unfortunately, the worst case scenario is that I find out--in six weeks.

Authentic Frontier Gibberish

I'll admit it, it was disappointing to me that Federal Agent Jack Bauer did not actually torture President Charles Logan (one of the pleasures of the episode was listening to characters refuse to call him by his title and spit out the names "Charles" and "Mr. Logan"). It would have been the ultimate in wish fulfillment to see Federal Agent Jack Bauer take the long knives to President Bush--I mean, Logan.

The President was arrested in an elaborate sting operation involving the first lady, Mike Novick, and an incredibly implausible group of Secret Service agents. There were touching nods to David Palmer and Edgar Stiles. Federal Agent Jack Bauer is on a slow boat to China and season 5 is history.

It's a cliffhanger on par with the failed assassination attempt on President Palmer in season 2. (This was three years, mind you, before the successful assassination attempt on ex-President Palmer.) It's leaps and bounds ahead of the faked death of season 4. Frankly, it's probably what last year should have ended with. Still, it leaves us with a few questions.

First, how cool would it be if season 6 was just Jack Bauer on a Chinese tanker killing everyone before crashing the ship into Hong Kong Harbor? I'll be very upset if--instead--we start as I expect we will, with some sort of prisoner exchange and a haggard Federal Agent Jack Bauer being welcomed back into the free world with a massive terrorist incident. I think Federal Agent Jack Bauer versus a billion Chinese is a fair fight. I'd like to see it.

Second, who was that in the cabal of mysterious, tidy terrorists pulling the strings of President Logan? There was a mysterious, tidy German terrorist who ordered the poisoning of President Palmer, too, and we never found out who he was, either. Sooner or later, all of these mysterious, tidy people will have to be taken down. Or is that the message the producers are trying to send--that despite foiling its plans day after day, even Federal Agent Jack Bauer is incapable of fighting the real evil in the world?

Finally, Chloe has an ex-husband?

It's a long time until season 6. I'll be gone East and back before it starts. Kick ass, Federal Agent Jack Bauer.

Want to See What Racism Looks Like?

This is one big example.

This is another, pure and simple.

And here's one more for good measure.

I've said it before--the next time some conservative acquaintance tells you over dinner that we have achieved equality of opportunity in this country and that racism is only a fringe problem...quietly reach under the table, remove your right shoe, and beat them with it.

It won't change their mind, but it'll make you feel better for a minute.

Still...

Good grief...

Stormy Monday

Still not asleep.

By the way, it's been raining here for quite a while now. Seriously. In late May.

Huh.

Enemies List #1

Still not asleep.

Television commercials that should be banned (and by banned I mean every copy erased, the ad agencies disbanded, and the "creative" executives shot):

--The Anti-mucous Drug that depicts animated phlegm dancing in a person's lungs.
--The Anti-fungal Drug where an animated bacteria-thing opens up a guy's toenail like a car hood before cramming itself underneath.
--Any Carl's Jr. ad that employs the amplified sounds of people chewing, accompanied by a monotone announcer and ending with some immense pile of food falling into frame. That voice makes me want to find the guy's name, hunt him down, and give him a tracheotomy with a milkshake straw. And no, this is not a explicit death threat. Yet.

This is a partial list. Expect multiple additions.

A Friendly Reminder

Still not asleep.

A reminder: Red Sox/Y***ees play at Fenway tomorrow afternoon at 4:05.

For the first time, the MLB Extra Innings package is useless--I'll be in Sherman Oaks at work for most of the game. (Ahhhhh!!!) At least when I relocate to the east coast for a while, a 7:05 start time will BE a 7:05 start time.

I'm Only (Not) Sleeping

I have to get up early tomorrow. Around eight in the morning--roughly, the time I'm usually falling asleep. No problem. I can do that. It's just that I also have to do it on Tuesday. And Wednesday. And you get the idea.

Now, in a week or so, it won't be a deal. You get used to the new routine because you have to for a job. But it's a long week. They always are.

I have been what is euphemistically called a "night owl" since about 1987. This means that when I am unemployed or working freelance jobs out of my apartment, I am awake until at least 3am. When there's a job, I'm able to adjust that to about 1:30 or 2, but the day the job is over the old schedule comes back.

This has not gotten better with time. In fact, it is safe to say that at this moment it is worse than it has ever been. My days and nights are totally flipped. Right now, since I've been working freelance writing gigs at odd hours, the usual is asleep at 7 or 8am, up at 2. There are many problems with this.

To start with, it's incredibly inconvenient having to cram your entire day's business interactions into three or four hours. Also, even if you're not an "up with people" kind of guy, it gets a little solitary when you only share nine hours a day with the rest of society.

If things could be changed, I would certainly do it, but I'm not willing to take sleeping pills on a regular basis. Booze isn't a healthy alternative and anyway, the sleep you get isn't exactly restful.

So here's the deal. I'm looking for suggestions. Anything you've got, I'll give it a shot. Meditation, warm milk, whatever. It's all on the table. I promise to give everything due consideration and at least one try. And thank you very much for any serious contributions to the discussion.

All right--I'm off to bed. Wish me luck.

Promises, Promises

Sorry, guys.

As always, if I don't post today, I promise an extra-long, extra-cranky rant for tomorrow.

Oh, And...

This blog gets about four hits a day that are spam hits, random hits from around the world like Singapore, Germany, and Vale, North Carolina. It's always just one hit per location. There's always a referral site that is another Blogpot site and if you check it, it's gibberish. I don't know why this happens.

Well, one of these was from Perth in western Australia. Or at least I thought it was spam originally, but there was no referral site, no gibberish. And the same IP prefix from Perth keeps checking in every couple of days. So I'm beginning to think someone in Perth is regular reader here.

WHO ARE YOU?!? Leave a comment, please.

Or could someone else tell me why this happens? What's with the weird hits?

Divide Et Impera

Well, now we know what Karl Rove has decided will be this election year's wedge issue.

Gay marriage is so 2004. Immigration is fresh. It's hip. It's divisive.

Illegal or not, it doesn't matter. Immigration has a ton of little attendant facets to exploit. English as a national language, cutting essential services to those without papers, ending automatic citizenship for the native-born--they're all ripe for the picking.

Millions of people around the country marched for the rights of immigrants, and get this...they were on TV when they did it. There's footage for your commercials right there. Don't they make a perfect other for a campaign in any midwestern state?

I talked with a conservative Mormon in Utah once who told me that Republicans will always win when it comes to social issues. This is because while Democrats preach social morality, Republicans preach personal morality. When Democrats claim that Republicans lack compassion, he said, people know they're wrong. Voters know that Republicans don't hate poor people or want the Grandma eating dog food. They know that issues of social morality are only differences of approach between the two parties.

On the other hand, issues of personal morality--like homosexuality and pornography--these are black and white, up and down issues. You don't have to think, you don't have to have compassion. All you have to have is a gut feeling and enough anger to pull a lever on election day.

What Karl Rove does so well is turn every issue into an issue of personal morality. Then he gets to set the terms. Right and wrong. Which side are you on, boy?

They've done it with national security, they've done it with gay marriage, they're doing it with immigration. The process actually REQUIRES constant discord. That's why any time you see one of Rove's candidates talk about uniting America, you automatically know they're being disingenuous.

One last thing. Both parties like to claim that they speak to our hopes, but their opponents speak to our fears. I'm a glass is half-full kind of guy--I think they BOTH speak to our fears. But Democrats speak to our fears of war and of poverty, of racism and ignorance. Republicans speak to our fears of our fellow human beings. They shouldn't be rewarded for it.

Let's Talk About The Weather

There are people who love living in Los Angeles. They do exist.

Ask them why and you'll get a list of things--the juice of living in the city where the world's amusements are made, the proximity to coast and mountains, the multicultural landscape. There is, however, one constant. One thing that goes not just on every list, but directly on the top of them.

The weather.

For some unknown reason, the people who choose to live here consider the weather outside to be an immense, dealbreaking, insurmountable factor in their daily lives. Far moreso than people in the northeast who, you know, actually have some.

Hazy in the morning, burning off by mid afternoon, high of 75. Or 85, or whatever. It's sunny ALL THE TIME. Big fucking deal.

"How about some variety?" you ask these converted Angelenos. "How about giving some days over to the unbelievable beauty of a crisp autumn day? Or some warm rain in the summertime?"

"Sure," they say. "We love all that. We love going home for the weekend in October and seeing some of that." And they shake their heads. They shiver for a moment. And then every one of them says the following sentence verbatim:

"It's just that...I can't take the winter."

Pussies. Every one of them. Having been raised in Central New York (I always say Central New York because I won't refer to Upstate New York. Upstate New York makes New York City the reference point for the entire state, and we are oh-so-much more than that.) I can tell you that snow and cold are pains in the ass. Having lived near Chicago for four years after that, I acknowledge that four months of winter will get on your nerves. Having lived in Southern California for a long time now, I can say that I could do winter standing on my head. Easy. Piece. Of. Cake.

And now I'll get a chance. It looks like I'm about to take a job that will move me back east until the end of December, starting in the beginning of June. The good news is that it is six months of steady employment. The really good news is that I'll be working ten minutes from my brother. The really, really good news is that he and I will be hanging out together for most of a baseball season.

The bad news is basically only for my sister-in-law.

Believe it or not, I will miss Los Angeles. That is to say, I will miss my friends in Los Angeles. I'll try to come back at least a couple of times during my exile, so it isn't a long goodbye.

In the meantime, I can't wait for my first thunderstorm.

God Save the Queen

It is often said that Oprah Winfrey could run for president and win easily. I believe it, and not because of some deep-rooted cynicism about how the American electorate demands only a name brand and some manufactured myth of the candidates they vote for. I believe it because I have now seen--first-hand--the power of Oprah.

I've seen it and I can't unsee it. I know now that we are mere subjects of the realm, pawns in her game. I understand at last why Oprah won't run for office--Oprah would relinquish authority by becoming president.

I go to lunch at Doughboys on Third Street a lot. Usually a few times a week. The food is good, the people there are nice, and it's cheaper than Toast down the block. (Actually, in the Toast-Doughboys debate, I'm a Doughboys partisan all the way. It kicks Toast's ass up and down Third. Thanks for asking.)

Doughboys has a signature dessert, their version of the red velvet cake. It's a little individual cake and has, like, a pound of cream cheese in the icing. It's okay--not my favorite. People love it, though. In the hour that I'll sit at the counter to eat, they'll usually sell ten or so of them. So business was good. Until yesterday.

Yesterday, Oprah Winfrey went on her television show and declared that the Doughboys red velvet cake was one of the best desserts she'd ever eaten. They got the equivalent of a papal blessing. Actually, I don't think as many people would listen to the Pope.

I walked in for lunch, sat down at the counter, and watched a parade of people line up to order as many as four of the red velvet cakes at a time. A few asked about buying sheets of the stuff at a hundred and twenty-five bucks a pop. The register drawer bounced in and out like a fiddler's elbow. It didn't slow down from the moment I sat down until the moment I left.

And every single one of the people mentioned how they saw the place on Oprah. Not from a friend who saw it on Oprah. From Oprah herself. She commands, they obey. Her mandate is absolute, so we'd better hope she's not wrong too frequently.

Here's the scary part: the people ordering the cake weren't always that nice about it. They'd argue about whose cake was whose. They'd complain to the counter-people if their cake wasn't coming quickly enough. They wanted the Oprah cake NOW. Imagine, then, if Oprah directed this kind of desire for immediate gratification towards something else. Say, single-payer health care or--and I'm just spitballing here--burning down the Capitol.

Anyway, in this case, it's not that big a deal. Still, I'd recommend the burnt lemon bar over the red velvet cake any day. It's not as flashy and it doesn't have the Oprah seal of approval, but you won't feel like you ate a brick of cream cheese afterwards.

Oprah wouldn't want you to gain weight, would she?

Delayed Gratification

Nothing this morning.

Big post later tonight.

That is all.

One More Thing

Have a nice day.

Hail to Thee, Northwestern

Ah, yes. Another gold star for the old alma mater.

Let's see. When I was there, three basketball players and a football player shaved points BELOW the spread, an unheard-of arrangement at the time. Our coach back then was such a class act that he later responded to a rape victim who was ON HIS TEAM by suggesting that she just wasn't a very good kicker. A different football player died on the practice field with his teammates running sprints twenty feet away from the attempts to resuscitate him. That led to an ugly lawsuit where the boy's mother and the school spent four-plus years smearing each other in the press. Then yet another football player was accidentally shot to death by his best friend. And now this.

I'll say this. For a school without a strong athletics tradition, we're finally catching up to the Florida States and USC's of the world. All we need are a couple drug arrests and some sexual assaults and we'll be ready for the top 10.

Go 'Cats!

You Should Go To The Movies With A Dead Person

Every once in a while, I get a twinge that I'm not taking full advantage of all the wondrous things that Los Angeles has to offer--you know, like the Grand Central Market or Rancho Palos Verdes, or...the Grand Central Market. So, partly to alleviate my guilt over wasting my finite time in this cultural mecca, some friends of mine and I went to a Cinespia screening at the Hollywood Forever cemetery.

As you'll see from their website, they rent out the huge lawn of the historic cemetery and project an old Hollywood film onto the side of an immense mausoleum. The idea is to bring a blanket and a picnic dinner, some wine, and watch the sun go down before the movie starts. When it does start, the picture's great, the sound's terrific, and there are plenty of port-a-potties right nearby.

I know what you're thinking. You're in a cemetery. It's creepy. There will be zombies. But you're wrong. It's quite pastoral. It isn't creepy. Plus, there are hardly any zombies, and those are quickly taken down by security personnel armed with shotguns and holy water. Trust me.

We saw "The Maltese Falcon," which is always in my top 5 movies of all-time. If you're looking for an added layer of cool in this particular movie, Peter Lorre is actually interred in the mausoleum onto which they were projecting his image. The director, John Huston, was a few hundred yards away.

And the movie is seriously awesome. If you've never seen it, please go and rent it tonight. Don't even finish reading this post. Just take off to the Blockbuster. It'll be worth it.

There were about a thousand people there and despite the fact that everyone was on a blanket and had a full meal in front of them, they were far more polite than any movie crowd I've seen in years. No one talking loud. When Joel Cairo (Lorre's character) made his first entrance, the folks started applauding--it's Hollywood, so they do know movies.

I'd highly recommend that you check it out. There's a screening every Saturday night, all summer long. They don't run that late, so even if you're opening a restaurant or something the next morning, you can go. This weekend is Edgar Ulmer's film noir classic "Detour" and next week it's the original "Invasion of the Body Snatchers."

Now I have to go find some other hidden LA treasure to ignore.

Another Video

Sorry for light posting.

Take a look at this guy. I know it's only a bit on a television show, but...

Doesn't he seem relaxed and confident? See how he's willing to joke about himself while at the same time remaining completely credible?

Wouldn't you vote for him if he ran for, say, President of the United States?

A "Wing" and Despair

Sort of a part two to yesterday's post...

"The West Wing" is going off the air tonight after seven seasons, fitting perfectly into the two terms of its President (the first season began one year into his first term). It goes without saying that the fictional President Bartlet is leagues above the actual one we've had for the past five years, blah, blah, etc.

Now that that's out of the way, I have to say I've never loved the show as much as I should have. Yes, its point of view was reliably reasonable, although occasionally suffering from the typical liberal bending-over-backwards-to-consider-the-repugnant-other-point-of-view. I've always thought of it as politcal porn, and while it's nice to look at once in a while, I don't want to live in the fantasy. On the other hand, plenty of people do.

The only analogue that springs to mind is "Sex In The City." For the time that show was on, you couldn't get away from women talking about who they were--that is, who from the show they most resembled. There were the four archetypes--the naif, the slut, the cynic, and the romantic--and all the intelligent, liberated women you know were lining up to pigeonhole themselves into one of them. "The West Wing" has had a similar effect on liberals. You're a get-it-done firebrand like Josh or a know-it-all, soft-hearted Sam or an angry, liberal Toby or a wise, pragmatic Leo.

My friend J has said that he has always looked at me as the Leo McGarry in his life. He means it as a high complimment, but I never identified with Leo. Instead, I thought of myself as more of a Toby Ziegler--deeply principled, self-destructive, good with words, vaguely depressed. Still, I stopped even sporadically watching the show midway through the second season and never thought about the character as someone I had to follow.

Never, until I saw a rerun on Bravo just after I got my cable hooked up again. In this episode, Toby has apparently bought his pregnant ex-wife a house and is asking her to marry him again. She says no, he asks her why, and she tells him that he is too sad for her. And suddenly they end up in the exact same conversation that I had with my (not pregnant) ex-girlfriend years ago just after she left. The exact same words being used, the same responses. As coincidence would have it, we also had our conversation in Washington DC.

My disbelief in seeing the imaginary me have this all-too-real conversation was matched only by this overwhelming sense of grief that there's nothing that he can do about it, either.

(Moments like that are what make dramatic television so great. They're also what make shows like "Law and Order" and "CSI" so useless, because they're not about people. Nobody will ever identify with the Sam Waterston character on "L&O" unless they have spasmodic dysphonia, but lots of people out there have found a scene where they're Leo or Josh or CJ. That is, in a word, cool.)

So now that I know I'm a Toby Ziegler, I realize I may have missed something in not watching the last five and a half seasons of "The West Wing." I have to go back and catch up, to see what Toby's going to do with his life now that the administration's term is finished. Maybe the fake me can offer the real me a little wisdom. On the other hand, I'd hate to think about what all those Mirandas and Carries were learning from their on-screen counterparts. Hmm...

Oh, well. Goodbye, NBC. Hello, DVD.

Mother's Day Notes

First, Happy Mother's Day to my mother, who I don't think has read this blog yet. Still, I want the five of you who DO read it to know how much I love my mom. It's a lot.

Second, I would like to wish as good a day as possible to the aces crew over at Square One Dining. May you have manageable chaos, heavy register, and a well-deserved Monday off.

Later, all.

A Moment About Television

JJ Abrams is taking a lot of shit for making "Mission: Impossible 3" look like a great big episode of "Alias." I've seen three articles already about the specific parallels in plot, story structure, and character between both projects.

At the same time, the papers are also going on about Aaron Sorkin--the last episode of "The West Wing" is on Sunday, and he has new show for the fall that takes placce behind the scenes of a fictionalized "Saturday Night Live." Everybody talks up his unique dialogue rhythms and erudite literary and historical references.

Basically, the thing about these guys (and guys like them--David E. Kelley comes to mind) is if you've seen one thing from them, you've seen it all. Or most, anyway. It's not that they're one trick ponies--far from it. Any one of them is five times the writer I will ever be. They're certainly better paid than I will ever be, and deservedly so.

It's just that they've all put multiple shows on the air that have lasted multiple years. Some TV auteurs have three shows on the air at a time. That's hundreds of characters, hundreds of stories, and they have to be ready week after week or else the network is showing dead air (or even worse, a reality show). Even if they aren't running the shows themselves, these guys are routinely drowning in deadlines. And when you're drowning, you grab onto the first thing that comes floating along.

Those things are the things that work for them. In Sorkin's case, it means back-and-forth zingers about George Bernard Shaw before a monologue about Why This is So Important. In Abrams' case, it means first-and-last-scene-bracketing-a-recent-flashback about characters who can't really communicate, although they Deeply Love Each Other. David Kelley shows reuse character tics, plots, whatever. They're all just supposed to be off-center and politically correct and incorrect at the same time.

You'd do the same thing if you were under the pressure these people are under. If companies gave you a limited amount of money to spend and a limited number of days to write and shoot and a need to fill 22 hours of TV--or 44, or 66. No wonder things look so familiar after a while.

(When Sorkin had to do a season of "West Wing" and "Sports Night" at the same time, one character on each show discovered his father's long term infidelity and had the exact same reaction to it. This was within weeks of each other. He cashed his checks from both networks.)

JJ Abrams is the current it-guy. He'll have five shows on the air in a three year span and they'll all look different but the same. I have higher hopes for Sorkin. He's had three years with nothing else on the air. Hopefully, time to recharge and find some new stories for his voice.

What voice?

You know, that voice that kinda sounds like Mamet, but not as edgy.

Oh, that voice.

Yes, that voice.

5-3

That's the final score of tonight/last night's Sox/Y***ees game. It means the Sox took two of three at the Stadium, three of four for the season series so far. Still, it's just one game in May and nothing to get too happy about, right? Why is tonight different from all other nights?

Because Hideki Matsui broke his wrist in the first inning, following Gary Sheffield onto the disabled list for at least three months. He's having surgery tomorrow.

The play he broke the wrist on looked fairly ugly, scoring a 5 out of a possible 10 on my Theismann scale of sports-injury videos. For a comparison, Kenny Lofton dislocating his shoulder sliding into first in 1999 is a 3, Robin Ventura shattering his leg in 1997 is an 8.

Now, of course I don't actually wish an injury on any athlete, not even a Y***ee. However, since injuries are part of the game...and the Sox will probably have their share before the season is over...and Matsui just KILLS us! KILLS US!!!...I am not entirely unhappy about this news.

Even so, I'm nervous because this starts us down an incredibly slippery slope. What slope, you ask? Follow me, folks.

Losing Matsui is trouble for the Y***ees in a big way. They've lost two thirds of their starting outfield. Bernie Williams can't even play the guitar every day at point, let alone right field (Uh-oh! There it is, Bernie!). Their options are Bubba Crosby and Melky Cabrera. You may know Melky Cabrera, but only if you're a resident of Columbus, OH. The upshot of all of this is that the Y***ees really need outfielders.

Where will these outfielders come from? They don't have prospects to trade in order to get them. They can't afford to trade away any pitching at this point--it's possible that they need starting pitching help as much as they need outfielders. They still have money, but it'll take more than money to swing a mid-season deal for a decent bat.

So the uber-potent Y***ee offense is now merely ultra-potent. They may not be able to get significant help before August. (Does anyone see where I'm going with this?) It is now only a matter of days before we hear about Brian Cashman having a long lunch with Randy Hendricks, the agent of one Roger Clemens. It may end up being Cashman's most expensive lunch in years.

So, if the Y***ees end up with Clemens, will I still think Matsui getting injured was a good thing? (It's objectively bad, but good from a baseball perspective--OK? I get schadenfreude.) I'm not sure yet. Let's wait and see.

If only we could get Mariano Rivera out in left field for a few games...

Ugh...

It appears that when women look at a man's face, especially around children, they're looking for clues that he'd make a good father.

"This study suggests that women are picking up on facial cues that are perhaps related to paternal qualities," said James Roney, a University of California at Santa Barbara psychologist and lead author of the study. "The more they perceived the men as liking kids, the more likely they could see having a longer-term relationship."

So here you go, ladies. Like what you see?




(Baby courtesy of my cousin M.)

And The Hits Just Keep On Coming...

Say...that sure is a nice-looking Fourth Amendment you've got there.

Be a real shame if anything were to, you know, happen to it.

Fairytale of New York

If you live in Los Angeles for any period of time, there’s a man you're going to meet. He has lived here for five, ten, twenty years. Maybe he owns a house. He might have a successful career in the entertainment business, he might be working in a bookstore. It doesn't matter. He hates it here.

Everything is better where he came from. The bagels suck, the pizza is lousy. The traffic is awful, the sports fans are fair-weather, there's no downtown, the people are phony. This guy has been everywhere, and LA is the worst.

When you ask why he doesn't leave, the answer is never the same twice. This guy holds on to a fantasy that he's going to make his strike in LA and move back to where he came from. This guy is, in a word, an asshole.

Please allow me to introduce myself.

I was that guy for the first six years that I lived here. To tell you the truth, there’s a good bit of him left in me now. Still, I got into yet another argument this past weekend when I heard some guy yapping about how great New York City is supposed to be.

(I always have to refer to that place by its full name. I grew up in Central New York, and when I first moved away I made the mistake of telling people, correctly, that I was from "New York." They asked which side I grew up on. Then I told them that it wasn't a side or borough, but a city four and a half hours away. They always laughed and said, "That's not New York!" These people are dead now.)

You see, New York City people exist in a special category of self-centeredness that falls about midway between sociopath and God. They believe that their city provides the best of everything, be it theater, art, food, architecture, or public transportation. They act as though living amongst this bounty of riches has transferred to them the blessings of the Almighty, which they carry around with them even when they travel. We should all acknowledge our inferiority to their town, the greatest the world has ever known.

And they have the Y***ees.

Baffling, though, is that with all this manna, the people of that place still seem to believe that they deserve a medal for living there. So unique is it that those of us on the outside could never understand the pitfalls of its streets, the hidden twists and dangers that they alone have adapted to. A dangerous paradise for the unworthy such as we.

This was the case laid out to me this weekend at a birthday lunch for a friend, by a guest from, yup, Out of Town. I had to respond.

First off, there's better theater, a better museum with an art scene that is just as vital, architecture unparalleled in the world, outstanding, reliable public transportation. There's better pizza and restaurants that would blow the doors off any Bobby Flay creation at half the price. Gorgeous wide open public spaces with arts opportunities such as the world's greatest symphony, old movie palaces, and a baseball stadium that make Y***ee Stadium feel like the parking lot that it is.

I finished with a smile, took a triumphant swig of beer. The guy just looked at me.

"Dude, none of that shit is in Los Angeles."

"Who said anything about LA?" I asked. "I was talking about Chicago."

Be There Or Suck. End of Story.

It's Red Sox vs. Y***ees today. Old traditions combining with new rivalries. You have the freshness of Damon in pinstripes and Beckett's first trip to the Stadium since the Series. You have the age-old rituals, like Sheffield and Giambi injecting themselves with steroids.

We're 32 games into the season. Out of 162. It is impossible to communicate how meaningless this game is in the grand scheme of a six-month long baseball season. Yet I can say with total mental clarity that it is the most important thing happening in the world tomorrow.

Let's look at the competition:

The CIA needs to confirm a new director. We've needed one for six years. We can make it through a three game series without another guy who has Cheney's hand up his ass.

War in Iraq. Yeah, no one's denying that's heavy stuff. However, unless Iraq can somehow form a miracle coalition government that proves to be stable in the long term, I'm sticking it on page two.

Continuing nuclear brinksmanship with Iran? Trust me, nobody's dropping the big one tomorrow, so it's strictly back-burner stuff.

So there you have it. Beckett and Johnson at 7:05 Eastern. Get your priorities straight.

--------

Confidential to YES!: I've brushed my teeth twice today. I got rid of a pretty nice buildup of plaque this morning, but the evening brush was disappointing. I may need a new brush soon--the Oral-B indicator is on low and I face a hard decision now regarding a possible replacement. Thanks as always for your concern.

Twisting My Words

So it's no secret that I enjoy crossword puzzles to an almost psychotic extent. Hey, everyone has something, and mine might prevent early-onset Alzheimer's. Nothing wrong with that.

In addition to being my entire preventative health program, there's also something about the crossword that is very attractive to my personality. It's a blank space that you have to fill. It has definite right and wrong answers. It gets harder as the week goes on. Oh, and it's both social and anti-social at the same time. Even though it's an entirely introspective activity, people will always approach you to talk about the puzzle. Sometimes, that's not what you're looking for, but usually it's okay.

Being a creature of habit, I'll eat at the same few places and do the LA Times puzzle. Everybody who works at these places will see me do the puzzle. They ask how I can finish the puzzle, and at some point I just became "the guy who always does the puzzle." That's me.

There are worse things to be known for. I could be "the guy with the awful breath" or "the guy who wears shirts that are way too small." Instead, there are the puzzles.

A couple of weeks ago, I had dinner at a place I don't go to very often. It was extremely late, about one in the morning, and I hadn't done the puzzle yet that day. So I bought a paper, sat at the counter, and went to work.

And that's when a waitress from one of my regular places came in. She said hello, she went to sit down. She looked at me funny for a second, though, on her way to her table. A second later, I figured it out. The puzzle.

There's only one thing she ever sees me doing, then she sees me in another context for the first time and I'm doing the same goddamned thing. She must figure that I am absolutely autistic. Instead of being "the guy who always does the puzzle," I'm "the guy who ALWAYS does the puzzle." I have absolutely nothing else in my life.

I'm like the Russell Crowe character in "A Beautiful Mind," except at least he got to think he was a spy. That would be cool. Also, since he was written by Akiva Goldsman, you knew exactly how his story would end ten minutes into the movie. I'll never have a clue about mine.

Anyway, it's not a deal. Hardly even think about it.

Shit.

Light Posting

Saw Mission: Impossible 3 tonight. It's a lot like Alias, and I don't consider that a great thing. Some fun smashy-smashy, however, and it is an absolute incontrovertible fact that the M:I theme is the greatest piece of music ever written for the screen. There is nothing in the world that can't be made exciting with that music. Except, surprisingly, this movie.

Some people who might have grown accustomed to daily posting will be disappointed, as I've got nothing to contribute today. Please come back tomorrow, though, for something angry and long-winded. I promise.

A Simple Desultory Philippic (Or How I Was Damon Lindelof'd Into Submission)

My friend D called me last night at 10:03. I know that it was 10:03 because "Lost" ran 62 minutes.

"Lost" is an incredibly irritating show, enough so that I had to stop watching for the first part of this season, but I'm back now. I'm back and I'm pissed. Here's why.

There are three questions I want to know the answers to:

1. Was the plane crash intentional? In other words, was it brought to the island?
2. Where is this island they're on?
3. What, if anything, do the numbers mean?

These are the questions that the show will not answer until the final shows of the last season. That is why there's no point in watching. The Hanso Foundation, the constant intertwining of everyone's stories, the Others...these are all part of these three questions that can't be answered. I avoided "Alias" and "The X-Files" because I didn't want to be a chump. Now I'm a chump, and so are you.

Want proof? Here's a quote from an interview in TV Guide. It's from Damon Lindelof and Carleton Cuse, the two guys responsible for steering the good ship "Lost" in circles:

Ausiello: Will we ever get a Rousseau flashback?
Damon: You can expect to see more of Rousseau next year, but the story of the wrecked research vessel... it will be coming at some point but we can't guarantee it'll be in Season 3.

They're stringing us along. Not for weeks, for years. Chumps.

Frankly, I'm convinced that they have no idea yet what the answers to the Big 3 questions are. There's no plan because that way, there's no danger of accidentally giving away too much information.

To save you some time, I'll be happy to tell you the future. Please make a note of this so that when I turn out to be correct, you can visit my grave and pour a little Guinness over it and say, "Matthew, you were right about 'Lost.'" Here you go:

When the show's ratings decline in three or four years, after numerous cast changes that were all "part of the plan," they'll have a season where they're not sure if the show is coming back. They'll start hinting that the final answers will be coming. Major Revelations will be unleashed. Then the show's renewal will come through, and the Major Revelations of Season 6 will be meaningless.

Season 7, the show's last, will limp along. They'll burn off the final shows during the summer, answer all three questions in an enormously unsatisfying fashion, and walk off into the sunset. Everyone will ask, "What the Fuck?" The Associated Press will run an article about the "disappointed legions of dedicated fans." The showrunner, who will NOT be Lindelof or Cuse, will be quoted as saying that "this has all been in the works since day one."

There you go. I just saved you five years of frustration. And if you say you're one of those people who only loves the show because "It's about the characters!"? Well, fuck you. You're lying.

Anyway, about last night's show. Ana Lucia is dead. (Of course, it had nothing to do with Michelle Rodriguez's DUIs and jail time. It was--say it with me now--all part of the plan.) Libby is gravely injured, gravely enough to make what CBS is referring to as a "guest appearance" in another TV pilot. Sure. Michael has shot himself in the arm.

The following is conjecture, as opposed to what I gave you earlier, the absolutely certain future:

It's pretty clear that in return for Walt (or Walt's safety), Michael was coerced into shooting Ana Lucia (payback for icing the Other months ago) and freeing Henry. He'll then try to rouse the castaways into getting all their guns together and making a suicide run at the Others' facility. That facility will be the big "?" in the middle of the psychedelic day-glo map that broke Locke's leg. It broke Locke's leg not because the numbers hadn't been entered into the computer, but because the doors were designed to close during supply drops--to prevent Desmond the Former Lab Rat from seeing the plane that drops the supplies.

We'll see Desmond again, right before our intrepid heroes are about to go into combat to take on the Others. He'll come back to say he has HUGE news about the Hanso Foundation, right before the screen goes black. End of Season Two.

See you in the fall, Chumps.

Bloggy Questions

I just received an e-mail update about the traffic on this website, and I learned a couple of interesting things.

First, someone logged onto this blog after searching for the words "ku klux klan," "dragon," and "amite." That can't be good, right? I mean, I guess those words are technically all here, but who would want to see them together?

Second, someone from an Pac Bell internet node in Whittier checks the blog fairly regularly. Not from any referral page, either. They type in the address. Do I know anyone in Whittier? Whoever you are, thanks for your faithful readership. Really.

That's it. More later.

Once Lost, Now Found

It's no secret that I can't sleep at night. Don't know why that is, it just is. So I read or write or work, usually with talk radio or TV as white noise in the background. It was basically a happy accident that one night a few years ago I discovered the greatest program in the history of television.

It ran for a while on KCAL-9, weeknights at 3:00am. It was a paid program, an infomercial, but they ran a new show every night, always starting the same way--a balding white guy with an unplaceable accent sits behind a surprisingly professional news desk and welcomes us to the show. He tells us how happy he is that we're watching, but he knows something is wrong. He says that, sure, everybody has problems--and maybe you don't think yours are that bad--but it's 3:00 in the morning and you're up watching an infomercial. Maybe your problems are more serious than you think. And then he kindly suggests that you may be possessed by demons. Cut to the video of the screaming, writhing, puking members of his congregation.

I loved this show.

What I loved most about it wasn't the exorcism videos, which are great but get old quickly. Like all preachers, it's the patter that's the prime draw. I loved the preacher's absolutely pragmatic pessimism. If you’re watching me, pal, you’ve fucked up somewhere. And, since you’re up and in obvious pain anyway, maybe I can sell you on the whole demonic possession thing. What a salesman.

Anyway, it was on for a while, and then it wasn't. I missed it. And eventually, it just became a fun thing to talk about with people.

But it's back now. Not on KCAL-9. It's on KDOC, a low-power UHF station that shows nothing but grainy reruns of "Magnum PI" and "The Rockford Files." It isn't on as late as it used to be (12:30am) and I don't know if the good reverend still has his hypnotic empathy working, but I can't wait.

"Real Answers" is back, baby.

And Here Come The Pretzels!

Since the Red Sox/Y***ees game has been postponed, now might be a good time discuss what happened with Johnny Damon yesterday.

He was greeted with either a healthy smattering of cheers among a loud chorus of boos, or a healthy smattering of boos among a loud chorus of cheers, depending on the recording that you're listening to. His reception was definitely less welcoming than Dick Cheney's at the Nationals' Opening Day but more welcoming than Eichmann's in Jerusalem. We'll call the happy medium...Thurman Munson.

If I had been at the game, I'm not sure what I would my reaction would have been. Yes, he was such a huge part of 2004.

HOWEVER--the offer the Sox made this offseason was not by any means insulting, but he went to the Y***ees anyway, tried to pretend he had been insulted, and insisted that it had absolutely nothing to do with the money.

He's the victim. Listen to this from his new manager:

"I was a little disappointed in the reaction by the fans," Joe Torre said. "Evidently, wearing a Yankee uniform overrides winning a World Series and busting your tail for four years."

Not quite. Sure, if Johnny Damon had signed with the A's, he'd have gotten a standing ovation. Even if he had signed with the Y***ees and just kept his goddamned mouth shut for the next four months, he'd have heard a few boos in a generally warm wave of applause. That's not how wanted to play it, though.

Instead, he spent three months speaking into every microphone put in front of him. You would have thought they passed a New York State law that you had to answer every single question from every single reporter until Opening Day. So he talked about how miserable things are in the Red Sox locker room, about how Manny has been praying to be a Y***ee, about how he and Millar were the real spirit of 2004. And now he's upset and, yes, a little ashamed of Boston that he's getting booed.

The fans could have been super extra-special classy and brushed it all off. But they didn't, and you know what? This is how he wanted it. Now he can sulk, feeling like the whore who didn't get paid. He can carry a chip on his shoulder and truly be a Y***ee.

I probably just would have sat there and done nothing. Or, depending on where I was sitting, thrown something like an Escalade at him. Or a battery.

Whatever it is they used to do to Thurman Munson.

Si Papi Puede!

Today in the city where I live, half a million people marched for miles down one the nation's busiest corridors for social justice, equality, and simple human dignity. And the Red Sox beat the Y***ees 7-3, capped by a David Ortiz shot directly into the wind in center field.

I'm having the kind of day which makes me question which is more important. The march, probably, but only because this is just the regular season.

For another comparison, it took the first marchers an hour and a half to go a bit over two miles from MacArthur Park to Wilshire and La Brea. It took Doug Mirabelli twelve minutes to get from Logan Airport to Fenway Park.

Game two of the series tomorrow. Social justice much later.